


survivor types

by thinksideways



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Shipwrecked, Friends to Lovers, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical Wish Fufillment, Multi, Pining, Slow Burn, Survival
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2018-09-08 05:45:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 94,895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8832745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinksideways/pseuds/thinksideways
Summary: Aaron Burr is excited to begin his journey overseas and act as ambassador to France, until—Until he finds out he’s not the only ambassador on board.Until a hurricane strikes.Until he ends up shipwrecked with Alexander Hamilton.
(Or, Being An Account of Shipwreck, Survival, Pirates, Revolutions, and Revelations.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> so first off this is my first attempt at, like, a big original plot that's not just all angst, all the time, and it kind of freaks me out.  
> also, I've wanted to read this fic forever, and finally decided to just write it. 
> 
> my timeline is off as hell but this takes place around 1780.
> 
> The title is homage to a Stephen King short story of (almost) the same name. other than the name, this work has very little to nothing in common with King's story.
> 
> check out a beautiful cover [here](https://68.media.tumblr.com/f37930f0a2a5e03e647c5f168cc4447f/tumblr_oqqcrhBUKS1qh4d58o1_500.png), made by @[hambrr](http://hambrr.tumblr.com)

“Are you kidding me?”

Burr doesn’t mean to shout, but he can’t help it. And really, it’s actually quite restrained when you think about it, because what he really wants to say is _are you **fucking** kidding me, you must be out of your goddamned mind_ , so he’s at least edited in that department. Not that these office walls haven’t absorbed their fair share of curses, but Burr generally tries not to contribute.

“I’m serious,” says Washington, as if he was ever anything else. Burr hadn’t really expected a different answer, but he’d had to ask.

“You have the temperament and upbringing for it,” Washington continues, “and your French is impeccable, I’ve heard. You’d be a decent ambassador.”

Burr doesn't miss the dryness that accents the word - _decent._ Still. An ambassador. He tries to wrap his head around the word. It’s not a path he’d ever pictured for himself, certainly not now - not with the war wrapping up, a new nation rising from the wreckage left behind by the revolution. He has a plan, was preparing to return to New York to establish himself as a lawyer, with notions to eventually move into government. It’s a neat plan, well laid out. Ambassador was never a plan. Never even a consideration.

“I can’t force you, of course,” says Washington - not technically a lie, but they both know what would be in Burr’s best interests, “but doing this... _favor_ for me would greatly improve your political standing upon your return.”

Implicit in Washington's words, of course, is the suggestion that if Burr does refuse Washington's offer, his political standing could greatly suffer. Despite his frustration, Burr still has enough wits about him to begrudgingly appreciate Washington's cunningness, the quiet authority he held over Burr. Ironic, really -- all those times Burr has sought Washington's favor, and here it is, being offered to him on a platter – or, offered on the bow of a ship.

“I'll think about it,” says Burr.

“I expect an answer by tomorrow,” says Washington.

In truth, they both already know the answer. It was never much of a choice in the first place. There’s no other real option, not if he truly wants to advance his political career. Washington has, in his way, cornered him as neat as a cat corners a mouse. Burr already knows, of course, that Washington has little regard for him as a soldier, and Burr wouldn't be able to go far under Washington's new political regime unless he could do something to change the narrative, something drastic to win Washington’s favor.

 _Ambassador,_ he thinks again. Maybe he could get used to the word.

 

***

 

Burr goes home and pretends to think it over. Truth is, the idea was growing on him (perhaps because he has no other option; but perhaps not, perhaps this could be his calling). The trip to France alone would be an adventure. As a boy, he and his sister Sally had often visited the docks, usually unsupervised, and had enjoyed watching the men load and unload the ships with every item imaginable - nets full of fish, rugs with exotic designs, and even livestock. Burr recalls especially a day when they saw several men unloading a sleek Thoroughbred racehorse, a black stallion who had bucked and twisted his way down the gangplank and had almost broken free from the men holding him once they’d made it to land. He’d fantasized about stowing away on one of those ships, sailing to some new exotic land to pick out horses and goods of his own. He’d even gone so far as to walk up a random ship’s gangplank, but he hadn’t taken all of two steps aboard before one of the dock workers had spotted him and dragged him off by the ear. He recognizes this now for the escapism it was, the imaginings of an unhappy child shuffled from household to household, dreaming of adventure -- but this didn’t negate the fondness of his memories, the way the docks had thrilled him.

He’s been aboard ships since then, of course, but always short jaunts -- a few days here or there, and once a week-long trip with his grandfather on some spiritual mission. He’d always experienced a sort of thrill on those trips; standing on the deck and watching the land shrink away behind them. On board, he’d spend hours at the railings, watching the water and occasional splash of fish (and once, something larger, a fin cutting through the water with an unnerving quickness). He’d always disembark with his face wind-burnt and hot from so many hours spent outside. It’s been awhile since he was last on a ship, and the thought of returning to the sea grows increasingly appealing.

And now, the more he thinks about it, the more he shouldn’t have been so surprised that Washington had eyed him for this task. Washington’s animosity aside, Burr has the fluent French and genteel upbringing of any good diplomat, and surely even Washington could not deny that Burr would make a good representative of their emerging country.

Of course, regardless of any nerves or misgivings Burr has, there remains one other very good reason not to go.

He and Theodosia have not been together long - and truth is, _together_ isn't the right word for it, it is a relationship built on another man’s schedule, a thing veiled in secrecy - thinly veiled, sure, but veiled nonetheless. Burr is pretty sure that he is in love with her - a fact he hasn't admitted but has shown, in his way, a dozen times over - but all the feelings in the world can't change the fact that she is still much too married.

He doesn't want to leave her. He cherishes his nights with her -- the sex is good, yes, but better still is how she’ll keep him up ‘til all hours with conversations on topics he’d never imagined she’d been educated in, only to show herself more informed than he; and he loves her all the more for it.

He could ask her to come with him, he knows, but since they are not married he is unsure if Washington would agree to fund another person on the journey, and Burr lacks the purse to do so himself. There is also the matter of her children -- even if Theodosia would take it upon herself to abscond to France with him, the children surely wouldn’t, and she would never leave them behind.

 

***

 

“I’ll do it,” he tells Washington the next day, and doesn't miss the self-satisfied smirk that plays across Washington’s face, the unspoken _I knew you would_. Burr keeps his own face schooled and impassive.

“Excellent,” says Washington, “we’ll make arrangements to send you as soon as possible. Get your affairs in order. You can expect to set sail in a week or so.”

“A week?” Burr can’t help but repeat the words back to him, aware he sounds a fool. He knew Washington was in a hurry to cement their alliances with France, but this still seems too fast, too sudden. Just yesterday morning he hadn’t spared a thought to France, and now, in less than 24 hours, he is George Washington’s official ambassador there. His head spins a little at the thought.

Life changes in a moment.

 

***

 

Time does not slow down, though he’d half-hoped it would. Instead, it seems to speed up, until Burr feels as if the hours are passing him by in some kind of fervent whirlwind. He works with other high-ranking officers to disperse the soldiers at his command to new posts. He stays up late most nights practicing his French -- it is still too technical, too academic and stiff, but he hopes his grasp on the language will improve once he is in the country itself. Almost all his French has been built in the classroom, and while his conjugations and tenses are strong he is still messy on slang, on the easier way the French actually speak. Burr still speaks a bit too slowly, a bit too stiffly, running each word through his mental translator before allowing it to leave his lips. It will improve, he is sure. He’ll sound like a native speaker soon enough.

Telling Theodosia is the worst part. When he calls upon her house she greets him eagerly, body pressing into him with a liquid ease, and for a moment he is tempted to take her to bed without telling her, eke out one last time between them. But he knows to do such a thing would be dishonorable (more dishonorable than bedding another man’s wife already is), so rather than kiss her back, rather than bury his hands in her hair, he pulls back.

“Theo…” he begins, and before he can say anything else her face changes, darkens, as she picks up on the gravity in his tone. She has always been so astute, able to read him in a way he both loves and fears.

“Washington's offered me the position of French ambassador, and I accepted. I’m set to leave in three days’ time. I know it’s fast, but Washington wants a man over there as soon as possible…” he trails off, wanting to tell her more, _more_ , to justify this further, because surely he has to justify it.

She smiles, but her lips are tight and the smile doesn’t touch her eyes. She’s not the crying kind, but Burr notes a sheen in her brown eyes, and feels his heart twist for an awful moment.

“Three days,” she repeats.

“Yes,” he says, “I’m sorry to tell you so late, but I only found out about it a few days ago, and since then we’ve been preparing, and, given your situation, you know I can’t call unannounced.”

A bit callous, that, to throw the nature of their relationship in her face. They have developed a routine - she writes him letters filled with dates he can call upon her, and they make good use of that time, make good use of the marriage bed she built with another man.

He tries not to think about it too much; the exact nature of their relationship - their _affair_ \- but occasionally the facts make themselves known in ugly, inconvenient ways.

“It’s not forever,” he continues, “I’ll have the option to return in a year or so. By then…”

 _By then your husband might be dead_ , is what he wants to - but doesn’t - say. He knows it’s in poor taste, to want for another’s man’s death the way he does. As a soldier, of course, he’s killed, but those were nameless, faceless men, men clothed like the enemy on a battlefield - sanctioned killing, of sorts, on a sanctioned killing ground. The want for this man’s death is uniquely personal, even grotesquely intimate, in a way.

“I make you no promises,” she says, and her voice is strong, “even if...even if I am made available, I make no promises to wait.”

He’s expected as much - she is not the kind of woman who sits idly by waiting for things, wringing her hands - but the words still feel like a knife in his belly, a physical twist of the gut. He does a poor job of hiding his feelings, because her expression softens a bit, and she takes one of his hands between both of hers, rubs her fingers over his knuckles.

“In the meantime,” she says, “we have three days, and we’ll make the best of them.”

They do.

 

***

 

The last night together is when the bittersweetness of leaving sets in, they stay up talking and fucking. Eventually Theodosia curls against him, buries her head against his chest, not crying but not dry-eyed, either. She doesn’t look up at him, and he’s glad because his own eyes are stinging. He suddenly dreads the voyage, the expanse of cold nights, the ambiguous way they’re leaving things.

(Not that _I make no promises to wait_ is very ambiguous. But Burr pretends. He is good at pretending.)

In the morning, they are both bleary-eyed and tired, and Theodosia’s youngest, Mary Louisa, is crying nonstop over some imagined slight and tugging at her skirts. Their goodbye is much too brief and entirely unsatisfying, and when Burr looks back at the entryway she has already closed the door. The sight of that closed door shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but Burr tries to put the thought aside.

Burr returns to his own home and gathers up his suitcases, packs the final few items necessary - a few more shirts, the watch Sally had given him when he’d finished at Princeton, his favorite umbrella. The carriage ride to the docks feels too long and too short all at once, he spends it all looking out the window at the familiar streets with a sort of preemptive homesickness.

But there’s excitement, too, kindling in his belly -- a voyage at sea, a new country, a new language. Not to mention Washington’s all-but-guarantee of a high political post upon his return.

 _Secretary of State Aaron Burr has a nice ring to it_ , he thinks.

 

***

 

The docks are bustling, almost chaotic when he arrives. The air is rife with the scents of saltwater and fish, and all around him men are yelling. It’s not the same docks he’d visited with Sally as a child, but it seems the on-goings are the same whenever you set sail. He realizes with a pang he hadn’t yet written to Sally, informed her of his journey - they’d drifted apart, forged their own lives, it was no longer them against the world as it had been in childhood, as they’d been shunted from relative to relative, handed off by death or disinterest until they grew old enough to be on their own. He makes a mental note to pen a letter to her as soon as he gets settled into his room -- not that he could post it, out in the middle of the ocean, but having the letter written would be a reminder to send it as soon as they landed in France.

In the distance, Burr spies Washington near a ship and hurries in that direction. He’s a bit surprised Washington is even here to see him off, but takes it as a clear sign his favor must be finally turning, that Burr is at last climbing into his good graces. He squares his shoulders and smiles, and for once, it even feels natural to smile in Washington’s presence.

“General,” he says by way of greeting, extending his hand. Washington takes it, his grip firm enough that for a moment Burr expects to hear the bones of his hands grinding together, but Washington quickly releases him.

“Glad to see you haven’t changed your mind on us,” Washington says, and though he’s smiling, it doesn’t entirely feel like a joke. Burr wonders briefly why Washington bothered to come see him off if he still felt this snide.

“ _Je suis prêt_ ,” he replies, the French easy on his tongue, his own snide response, then, “any last commands?”

“No,” says Washington, “the journey should take a few weeks, maybe a month. I’ve sent word to my contacts in France to expect my ambassadors’ arrival, so they should be ready for you.”

Burr knows all this - even with only a week to prepare, he’s learned all he can about the journey and likely sailing path - but he smiles and nods anyway.

“Good luck, Burr,” adds Washington, and before Burr can thank him, Washington has turned to go.

A ship boy shows up for Burr’s suitcases and Burr tosses him a coin, watching the boy carry the heavy suitcases up the gangplank with a surprising strength. No one else appears with orders for him, so he walks up the gangplank alone.

 

***

 

He’s walking on the deck, trying to avoid the sailors getting the ship ready - which is more difficult than it seems, they bustle and move and shout to one another, all exact in their orders, dancers moving in a ballet Burr doesn’t know the choreography to.

“You look lost, boy,” says a voice, and Burr turns. The man stands with an easy air, sharply dressed. He is taller than Burr, and likely a few years older as well. His hair is brown and shorn close to his head - freshly cut, Burr guesses, judging by a small nick at the man’s temple.

“Edward Preble. Captain of the _Pickering_ ,” the captain says, and offers a hand. Burr shakes it.

“Aaron Burr. Washington’s new ambassador to France.”

A brief moment of confusion crosses Preble’s face, but he says nothing else, instead looks off and gestures for a ship boy - the same one who had carted Burr’s luggage off earlier. The boy runs over as soon as he’s beckoned, looking up at the captain with a puppy-dog eagerness.

“This is William,” says Preble, “William, this is Mr. Burr. Please show him around the ship and to his quarters. Pleased to meet you, Mr. Burr. I look forward to having you on my ship.”

Preble moves off, already calling to another of the sailors, and the boy - William, Burr supposes - is looking at him impatiently, even though less than ten seconds had gone by.

“Come on, then,” William says, and Burr follows, lengthening his strides to keep up with the boy’s speed.

 

***

 

William takes him below deck and shows him the mess area - small, but clean - and leads him down the narrow corridor to his room.

The room is small, almost claustrophobic. Bunk beds take up an entire wall and extend into most of the cramped room. There is also a small desk holding several books and loose parchment and a three-legged stool. Luggage - more bags than Burr has brought - takes up the rest of the space, leaving barely enough room for William and Burr to stand in there.

“Washroom’s one door over,” says William, then, “looks like your bunkmate dropped his stuff by. Have you met him? He talks more than you.”

There is judgement in the boy’s tone, though Burr can’t figure out for whom.

“Bunkmate?” he repeats, a bit dumbly. Though he supposes it makes sense - this is a merchant’s ship sailing on a longer journey, they must utilize every inch of space. The quick turnaround of Washington’s decision had not allowed for them to make grander arrangements, had, Burr suspects, actually involved a bit of wheedling if not outright bribery. Still, a room to himself would have been nice. Would have, perhaps, been fitting for an ambassador.

“Sure,” says William, “this is the ambassador's quarters. He’s a nice fella, though. And it’s more privacy than most of us crew get.”

Burr feels selfish, suddenly -- he’d seen the crew’s quarters, a large area packed with hammocks, that would no doubt at nights be filled with a chorus of snores and farts from the other men. He should be grateful he’d only have to room with one man on the journey.

The tour wraps up on the deck, where William shows him the handful of smaller boats strung near the ship’s sides.

“These are the access boats. We use those for quick trips inland when we’re not docking. I helped Mr. Preble rig up a new kind of system for them -- we can get them in the water much faster than we used to. He calls ‘em davits.”

William waves to the rigging, a system of ropes and pulleys that looks intricate as a puzzle. Burr nods, impressed, noting the way the boats are strung, beginning to make sense of the pattern, how the ropes keep the boats suspended, but able to be easily set into the water. Even without knowing much about ships, he can see it’s a clever system, a much easier way to get the boats in the water quickly.

“Only takes one or two men to get them in the water now, Used to take a half dozen of us. Preble even says they could even be used as escape vessels, this way,” William continues, “though with the war ending there’s not a lot of cause for escape.”

He sounds almost disappointed, but then his face brightens, “could be used if pirates attacked, though!”

Burr knows the age of pirates is a few decades behind them, though he supposes there are still a few straggling ships about, especially down in the warmer climates. He smiles obligingly at the boy, though, and lets him have his thoughts of adventure.

“It’s a fascinating system,” he agrees, and that seems enough for William, who ends the tour there, leaving Burr on the ship’s deck near the bow. Burr finds a spot close to the railing where he seems to be out of the way, at least for the most part. He listens idly to the noise - men shouting, seagulls screeching, and the low slap of the waves against the ship’s wooden sides.

The ship shifts as an anchor is pulled up, and heavy sheaths of rope are thrown onboard as they slowly cast away from the docks -- and then they are unbound, sailing.

It’s a glorious day - sunny, almost hot, but a breeze coming off the ocean fills their sails and cools Burr’s skin. The ship picks up speed as wind billows eagerly into her sails, cutting a path through the calm waters, and in less than an hour the shoreline has disappeared from view completely, and they are surrounded on all sides by the murky blue water. Burr remains at the railing, still staring out, squinting slightly against the glare of the sunlight on the water. Excitement has cycled up in his chest, and he wonders if a bit of William’s adventurous spirit hasn’t rubbed off on him, because suddenly he can’t get enough sea air in his lungs, and he allows himself to grin.

He’s staring out, grinning like a fool, half-blind from the glare off the ocean, when a hand taps his shoulder. Before he can even turn, a familiar voice rings out.

“Well, if it isn’t Aaron Burr!”

Burr blinks, trying to comprehend the man before him; _sure_ this is some kind of hallucination brought on by too much sun.

He opens his mouth to reply but for a moment nothing comes out. He feels like a fish pulled out of the water, mouth gaping, unable to breathe.

“Hamilton,” he says, “what the _fuck_ are you doing here?”

Hamilton doesn't blink at the curse, breaks into a smile.

“Washington appointed me as ambassador to France! He said he needed a charismatic French speaker to go over there to improve our alliance, and well, if the shoe fits…anyway, what are you doing on this ship? I thought you were going to go back to New York, start practicing law.”

“Washington appointed me as ambassador to France, too,” Burr manages, and then adds, “though he clearly didn’t trust me to do the job alone.”

“Or me,” Hamilton laughs, finding a humor in the situation that Burr is blind to, “he only asked me two weeks ago.”

It suddenly makes sense, now - why Washington had been on the docks, why Washington hadn’t expressed his usual reluctance at giving Burr any modicum of power. Burr is nothing but a backup. All this appointment did was get Burr out of Washington’s hair, but he had no doubt now that, upon return, all the glory would go to Hamilton - a trend he’s seen before. He’s seen the way Washington had looked at the man back in the thick of the war, how he’d ignored Burr’s suggestions but taken Hamilton on as an aide-de-camp, and, before you could blink was listening raptly to a man who shut up as if every word was fascinating.

“Oh well,” Hamilton continues, “two’s better than one, right? This is such a great opportunity to us.”

“Yes,” Burr manages to say, and hopes the word sounds more convincing to Hamilton than it does to him.

“Well, I look forward to the partnership, sir,” Hamilton says, and Burr sighs a little - the _sir_ had been a joke Hamilton had employed upon their first meeting several years ago, enjoying the rhyme - _Aaron Burr, sir_ and _Burr sir_ until Hamilton could hardly say Burr’s name without rhyming it.

“Now, I believe I have a tour to finish on this lovely vessel,” Hamilton says, and there was William, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. Hamilton follows the boy below deck, and Burr is once again alone at the railing. He turns back out to the ocean, his prior jubilance now turned to stone in his gut.

“Fuck,” he mutters under his breath, then, a little louder, because it was the one thing that felt good, “ _fuck_.”

Fucking Alexander Hamilton.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burr discovers who his bunkmate is, learns how to tie knots, and tries to get along with Hamilton.  
> Oh, and there's a hurricane.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know very little about ships and know about zero french, so naturally these are great topics for me to write about.
> 
> also, heads up, this chapter involves some disassociation triggered by a trauma (Alex & hurricanes).

Burr does calm, eventually. He stays at the railing and watches the waves, tries to slow his breathing. He walks the length of the deck, wanders back to the access boats William had shown him. It really is a fascinating system, and as Burr examines it he begins to see how it works -- which knots likely need undoing in order to lower the boat into the water. The boats themselves are small, oars nestled neatly inside them. Burr figures they could comfortably hold about six people, maybe ten if they were crammed tight. He makes a mental note to ask William or one of the other sailors about how to work the knots themselves, figuring a lesson in knot-tying might prove interesting. Burr has always liked to pick up small talents like that, wilderness skills. They’d come in handy in Quebec, when the troop’s supply of matches had gotten wet and the whole ground was freezing; Burr had been the one to start a fire with an intricate setup of sticks and friction. The men had cheered for him; and it had been a good feeling, the sense of saving them, almost as good as the baking heat of the fire on his face.

 

***

 

Dinnertime rolls around, and the meal is appallingly bland. A pea soup that Burr thinks is more water than anything else, boiled salt pork, and hard biscuits. The long table is crammed with sailors, men who are uncomfortably loud with abysmal table manners. The room quickly comes to stink of men - sweat and body odor - and Burr finds himself put off his food long before it is finished. He passes off the remainder of his rations to William and retreats to his quarters. Moving down the hall, he realizes he’d never met the bunkmate William had mentioned -- forgotten about it entirely, between the gut-punch of realizing he was nothing but backup, and backup to _Alexander fucking Hamilton_ , at that.

Burr swings the door open to see a man hunched over the desk, scribbling rapidly away. Burr recognizes the ponytail trailing between the man’s shoulder blades, but he still hopes --

“Mr. Burr!”

Hamilton is smiling like he couldn’t imagine a better bunkmate.

Speak - or think - of the devil and he shall appear, apparently.

 

***

 

“So,” Burr said, “you’re my bunkmate.”

“Ambassador’s quarters, after all,” Hamilton says, and now Burr hears the plurality in it, understands the brief confusion on the captain’s face.

“I claimed the top bunk, Hope you don’t mind,” Hamilton’s still writing, doesn’t pause as he speaks, two apparently coherent trains of thought running parallel.

“That’s fine,” Burr doesn’t mind, and really prefers the bottom -- on a past voyage of his, the ship had experienced choppier seas and he’d found himself rolling out of bed, not just once but rather an embarrassing number of times, and should that instance repeat itself he figures it would be best if he were closer to the floor. He notes that Hamilton’s bunk is already messed up, covers askew as if he’d nested in it like some strange bird.

Burr climbs into his bunk - the room is so small that when he’s standing it feels like he’s hovering over Hamilton, as if he’s trying to read whatever the man is writing. The mattress is hard, and feels like it doesn’t have much more give than the floor he’d just been standing on. He stares at the dark roof of the mattress above him, the slats of wood, but grows bored with that soon enough and begins to watch Hamilton instead, in lieu of anything else to keep his attention. Hamilton is bent over the desk, quill scratching furiously. Burr notes an ink stain on his wrist, fresh. He can’t see Hamilton’s face, but he’s seen him write before, and can picture of it -- eyes squinted tight in concentration, mouth pursed. There was something almost primal about the way he writes, almost intimate; and Burr quickly begins to feel odd, like a voyeur.

“I can feel you staring,” Hamilton remarks.

Burr almost apologizes, but then responds with, “believe it or not, but sometimes you’re more interesting than the wall.”

“Flatterer.”

“I did say _sometimes_.”

Hamilton laughs, and for a moment Burr is reminded of when they’d first met. They’d never been overly close - their friendship had been in a delicate, nascent stage when the likes of Laurens and Lafayette and Mulligan had tromped in - but they’d gotten along well enough, shared stories over drinks, and fought some of the same battles together. They’d even exchanged letters when Burr was fighting with General Montgomery in Quebec - more, Burr assumes, because Hamilton liked writing in general than he liked writing to Burr, but they had been letters nonetheless, ones he still has stored somewhere. Burr’s mild distaste for Hamilton is a more recent thing -- and is, he has to admit, a bit of a petty thing borne out of jealousy rather than any intense dislike.

But that first night that they’d met Burr had thought it was the making of a great friendship - Hamilton had drunk him under the table, never shutting up, but it hadn’t mattered because Burr had been drunk too, and the weight of his ambitions had not fully settled on his shoulders.

Hamilton puts down the quill and turns on the stool to face Burr. The stool has no back, so Hamilton leans forward, elbows on his thighs.

“George didn’t tell you I was coming.”

It’s not a question.

“No.”

Hamilton sighs.

“He told me he was sending a bac--another ambassador, but shit, Aaron, I didn’t think it was you. I didn’t even know you spoke French!”

“We spoke French the first night we met.”

He wasn’t even sure how it had happened -- Hamilton had exclaimed something in French, and Burr had replied (partly as a joke, partly to show off), and from there the conversation had continued on, at least briefly, in French, and Hamilton had taught his several swear words in the short time period, and some expressions ( _chier dans la colle_ for _you fucked up,_ for example, a phase that springs to mind now).

“Shit!” Hamilton’s eyes widen, and he laughs, again, “we did, didn’t we? I was so damn drunk that night.”

“ _Chier dans la colle_ ,” Burr replies, affecting a sage tone.

“ _Oui, je l'ai fait_ ,” Hamilton says, laughing again, and this time, Burr joins him.

“Anyway,” Hamilton continues when their laughter has died down, and Burr notices a flush high on his cheeks, notices there’s still a grin on him, “I’m honored you have you as an fellow ambassador.”

“You too,” Burr echoes, and whether he means it or not doesn’t matter, because Hamilton smiles in a way that’s bright and disarming, and Burr can remember why, as they’d sat in the dingy bar drunk on cheap beer and the potential of the new nation on the horizon, he’d kept saying _smile more, smile more_.

 

***

 

Hamilton is not a quiet sleeper.

Burr doesn't know why he’d expected anything else. He’d fallen asleep easily enough, despite the hard mattress and scratchy blanket he’d been given, but had been woken up after a few hours by the bunk creaking. Burr hears the blanket shifting, and there’s a low _thud_ as one of Hamilton’s body parts hits the wall, but this seems to do nothing to quiet him. Hamilton’s snoring, too, which Burr could have lived with -- Theo was a snorer, on spring days when the air was thick with pollen - but the constant shifting and creak of the wood are noises that seem to worm their way into his skull.

And then, the talking.

The words are slurred and indistinct, sleep-talk, but there’s a _lot_ of them.

_The man can’t even shut up in his sleep_ , Burr thinks, _probably wouldn’t shut up on his own damn deathbed_.

He clamps the thin pillow around his ears and counts his breaths. Inhale, exhale. It seems to take hours to fall asleep.

It feels like he’s only been asleep for minutes before he feels a hand on his shoulder, shaking him awake. He blinks, for a moment unsure where he is, and sits up -- too fast, it turns out, and he smacks his head on the top of the bunk.

“Fuck!”

He rubs his head, feeling the tender spot where a goose-egg will no doubt sprout soon enough, and finally looks to see the owner of the hand that had shaken him awake.

Hamilton has the good sense to look sheepish, but there’s also a quirk to his lips, like he’s trying not to laugh.

“Sorry,” Hamilton says, “but it’s breakfast in fifteen minutes. Thought you might want to know.”

Burr moans. He doesn’t expect the breakfast to be any better than the dinner had been last night, but he knows he needs to eat.

“You’re a fucking loudmouth in your sleep,” Burr grumbles, sitting (carefully) at the edge of his bunk, trying to figure out the best tactic for getting dressed in these tight quarters, “and when awake, but you know.”

Hamilton actually flinches a little.

“Sorry,” he says, “it happens when I’m in new places. Or excited. Or…”

He continues on while Burr dresses himself. He only bumps into Hamilton twice, and considers this a success.

“Please tell me we have coffee at breakfast, at least,” he says as they exit the quarters - partly to Hamilton, partly as some half-offered prayer to the gods. He senses he’ll need a lot of coffee to get through this voyage with Hamilton as his bunkmate.

They do have coffee, god bless. Burr burns his tongue drinking it -- it’s bitter and ill-made, but he doesn’t complain because they _have it_ \- and downs two cups before he feels even mildly human again.

 

***

 

 

Over the next few days, they settle in a sort of routine -- Burr barely sleeps at night, Hamilton wakes him, Burr drinks his weight in coffee. During the mornings, Burr spends time on the deck, sometimes observing the sailors work and sometimes just watching the ocean. When it gets too hot and bright to stay on the deck, Burr retreats to the quarters and reads, or naps, if Hamilton’s not in the room.

(He tries to nap with Hamilton in the room, once. Hamilton ignores his show of yawns and closed eyes and prattles on.)

They get used to sharing space. Hamilton is almost always up and dressed before Burr (always looking appallingly well-rested for as much as he thrashed; he was like a child in that way), so they almost never have to deal with getting dressed at the same time.

On the third day Burr finds William, pretending to be busy, idly polishing a pair of the captain’s boots that already have a mirror-shine.

“William,” Burr says, and the boy looks up, a bit sheepish.

“Can I help you, Mr. Burr?”

“I was wondering if you’d know me a few knots. I’ll pay you for your time, of course.”

William’s brown eyes brighten and he springs to his feet.

“Sure! Let me just drop these off. Stay there.”

William sprints off and returns in less than two minutes, holding a short piece of rope in his hands. They sit down, backs against the railing.

“This is the bowline,” William says, his hands moving in a blur until the rope is neatly knotted in something that almost resembles a hangman’s noose.

“Slower, please,” Burr says, and William, though impatient, obliges.

Burr watches William complete the knot several more times, and finally takes the rope into his own hands, attempts to mimic the motions he saw William put the rope through – small loop, thread the end through, snake around, back through like a figure eight. He messes up a little, and William corrects him, shows him the step where he’d messed up.

“It’s just a bunch of steps. 1, 2, 3, 4. Like this, see? And the steps, when performed right, produce the same result every time.”

Burr nods. It’s strangely comforting advice. After a few more tries Burr can produce what William deems a satisfactory bowline knot.

They continue the lesson for most of the afternoon, covering several other knots, until Preble bellows for William and the ship’s boy scampers off, leaving Burr with the piece of rope. He practices more, on his own, and finds it soothing. He enjoys the practicality of it, and the way the knots are predictable – _the same result every time_ , as William had said.

At dinner, he slips several coins into William’s hand, a motion that doesn’t escape Hamilton’s notice.

“What were you paying him for?” Hamilton asks as Burr shifts around him, changing into his nightclothes. It’s more awkward when Hamilton’s standing like this; usually Hamilton’s at their desk, somewhat out of Burr’s way.

“He taught me a lesson in knots this afternoon,” Burr replies, “not that it’s any concern of yours.”

“I thought maybe you were paying him to off me. That you wanted to be the sole ambassador,” Hamilton’s grinning, and Burr knows the truth is that Hamilton’s just damn _nosy_.

“A tempting thought,” Burr says, “but I’d pay off someone a bit larger than a boy, for that.”

Hamilton grins, then moves towards the bunks, but rather than ascend to his he sits down on Burr’s bunk.

“Show me,” he says.

“What?”

“The knots.”

Burr rolls his eyes, but he grabs the length of rope and sits beside Hamilton. The bunk is too small for this type of activity, and Hamilton seems to take up more space than entirely makes sense, as if his ego inflates him, takes up the room. Burr does his best to ignore this, instead shows Hamilton the same bowline knot William had taught him. Teaching is good practice, and in relaying the information to Hamilton Burr feels his own knowledge solidify.

Hamilton lacks Burr’s aptitude for the process – likely because he isn’t actually listening, preferring instead to just blindly attempt it under some assumption that he knows what’s correct. It takes him nearly a dozen tries to complete a bowline knot, and he declines Burr’s offer to learn any more.

“If I need knots, I’ll just come to you,” he says, sliding off the bunk, placing his hands on his lower back and arching a bit, stretching in a way that’s ridiculous but that Burr watches nonetheless.

Hamilton retires to his bunk, the lamp snuffed out, and Burr practices there in the dark, knotting and unknotting the rope by feel alone.

 

***

 

The air seems to get hotter, and wetter, until one day Burr goes on deck in the early morning and it feels like he’s breathing through wet cloth. It’s strange, this weather -- he’s perused maps, he knows France’s climate is no more tropical than New York’s, and neither is the expanse of ocean between the two. He seeks out captain Preble.

“The weather seems odd for a France journey. Have we gone off course?”

Preble refuses to look him in the eyes, instead shifts, looks over Burr’s shoulder at some distant point.

“Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?”

“My men and I are...taking a bit of a detour, you could say. Don’t worry, we’ll deliver you to France soon enough. We just have to make a quick stop first.”

Burr’s stomach churns. It’s not that he minds a longer journey, but no kind of detour had been mentioned to him. Of course, Hamilton hadn’t been mentioned to him either.

“Did Washington approve this?”

Preble shifts again.

“Well…” he says, which Burr knows means _no_ , “not quite, but Washington knows so little about trade. We’ll make double if we can make this detour first, trade with some natives for spices and the like. The French eat that shit up!”

“How long will this detour take?”

“A week at most. We’ll only dock there a day or two, enough time to trade our goods. You’ll still be in France by the end of the month.”

Burr wants to argue - the uneasiness in his gut hasn’t stopped - but he has no weight to throw around, for whatever prestige they have with Washington, Burr knows that he and Hamilton are essentially at the mercy of the ship and its crew.

 

***

 

“We’re fucking prisoners!”

To no one’s surprise, Hamilton is much more dramatic in his displeasure at the course change than Burr had been.

“Quiet down,” he tells him. The room is much too small to withstand Hamilton’s frenzy, and it’s too late for Burr to escape to the deck. Although he likes the ocean at night, at the later hours, with most of the crew asleep it seems eerie. Burr had gone up at night once, his second night onboard when he couldn’t sleep because of Hamilton’s incessant movements. He’d walked to his favorite spot on the railing, looking for a moment at the ocean, dark as ink under the cloudy, moonless sky. _I could fall overboard,_ he’d realized, staring down at the dark waves, _and right now, no one would notice._ His stomach churned, and he backed away from the railing as if it would grow hands and throw him overboard itself.

“Prisoners,” repeats Hamilton, whispering now, though his whisper still sounds like Burr’s preferred conversational tone.

“We’re not _prisoners_ ,” Burr says, though technically he supposes they are – they can’t send word to anyone, they can’t change the ship’s course. But he’d rather not use the word.

“It’s only a short detour,” Burr finds himself echoing their dubious captain, because he doesn’t know what else to say – agreeing with Hamilton would only fuel the fire.

“Yeah, ‘til we’re sold into slavery on some godforsaken island….”

“Alex, _please_.”

“We’re on a slippery slope, is all I’m saying. Preble’s a fucking liar. He’s probably not taking us to France at all. He’s probably going to ransom us back to Washington. And sorry, Aaron, but I don’t know how much Washington would pay for you…”

Burr notices Hamilton is grinning now, and the tension in the air slackens. He’s relieved – if they’re going to be prisoners, better compliant ones for now rather than Hamilton staging a coup.

Hamilton sleeps, eventually, and as Burr lies awake on the bunk beneath him he hears Hamilton moaning, an awful, pained sound, and he hears a word in that moan, clearer than Hamilton’s usual sleep-prose: _prisoners_.

 

***

 

The next morning the air is humid and still. Burr wakes up – before Hamilton, even – covered in sweat, his covers kicked off on the ground. He dresses quickly, leaves their quarters. He stops by the dining quarters for a cup of coffee and a hardtack biscuit, and escapes to the deck as soon as possible.

It’s not much better near the railings. The sails hang limply above him, and the ocean has a flat, glassy quality. Everything feels strange and still, foreboding. The sun has only just begun to rise, but the sky seems exploded in reds and oranges, none of the usual calm pastels Burr associates with the sunrise.

It’s strange, strange, strange and Burr feels uneasy.

_We’re prisoners_.

“Red sun at morning…”

Hamilton’s there, suddenly, having crept up on Burr, quiet as a cat.

“Beg pardon?” Burr half-wonders if Hamilton’s sleepwalking.

“The rhyme?” at Burr’s blank expression, Hamilton continues, “red sun at night, sailors’ delight. Red sun at morning, sailors take warning.”

His voice has a chanting, almost childlike quality that Burr finds eerie. Really, the whole thing’s eerie – the sky looks too much like blood (the obvious metaphor, he knows, but it’s what comes to mind), and here’s Hamilton, chanting _sailors take warning_.

“Is there much truth to it?”

Hamilton shrugs.

_We’re prisoners._

 

***

 

The hideous red sky eventually fades, but when Burr looks off into the distance he notices dark clouds forming. There’s a tension in the air, too, the crew moving too-quick across the deck. Burr catches tail-ends of conversations – “…told him it was dangerous…” – “she can handle it” – but conversations cease when he’s near, only to start up again when he moves away, a susurrus of words he can’t make out.

More hours pass, and now there is no denying that there’s a storm forming on the horizon. The air is still quiet, so humid that Burr feels like he’s inhaling water.

He goes below deck to use the washroom and wash his face with cool water, trying for some respite from the stifling heat. When he walks by his quarters he sees Hamilton sitting at the desk, which in and of itself is not unusual; what’s unusual is that Hamilton is _still_. There’s a quill and parchment before him, but Burr can see from here that less than half the page has been written. Hamilton’s hands are wrapped around his waist, hands cupping his elbows, a self-comforting gesture that looks strange and piteous on Hamilton. Burr is used to the brash Hamilton, the man who screamed French curses at the barkeep when he’d refused them another round, the man who begged – begged! – to be sent out to the battlefields, who stole the British infantry’s cannons right out from under their noses.

This Hamilton before him looks like a small, scared child. Looks vulnerable.

Burr clears his throat and Hamilton startles, hands unwrapping, sitting up straight.

“Aaron,” he says. He doesn’t meet his eyes, and that feels strange, too – usually Hamilton’s gaze will sit on Burr like a weight, daring him to look away.

“Are you all right?” Burr asks, though it’s obvious he’s _not_.

“I’m fine. It’s just…this heat. This quiet. It’s…” Hamilton trails off, but Burr can begin to fill in the blanks.

He doesn’t know as much as one would expect about Hamilton’s childhood, only knows the basics: an orphan by twelve, emerging from a hurricane-wrecked town in the Caribbean to sail to America, and –

_Oh_.

“You think what’s coming isn’t just a storm. It’s a hurricane.”

Hamilton almost flinches at the word.

“Back home…the quiet was the same. The _sky_ was the same. Like an omen.”

“Do the men know?”

Hamilton laughs.

“They know. They don’t want _us_ to know, because they don’t want to deal with some frightened little ambassadors until they have to.”

“Can we avoid it? Sail around it?” Burr feels queerly helpless, wishes he’d studied up on sailing, on weather patterns. Hamilton barks a laugh that sounds clotted and terrible in his throat.

“You saw the sky. They’ve pulled down the sails, tried to slow our entrance, but it’s coming. We just have to buckle down and hold on.”

“It’ll be fine,” Burr says, because that’s the kind of thing you’re supposed to say. _Fine_.  Spoken like a man who’s never known natural disasters, only thunderstorms.

Hamilton looks up at him, still seated on the stool, and his smile is heartbreaking.

“Yeah, we’ll be fine.”

Just fine.

 

***

 

By the time he and Hamilton return to the deck, a wind has picked up. It whips Hamilton’s ponytail into a face, a sight that would have been comical under other circumstances. They manage to find Preble, who once again refuses to look them in the eye.

“Rough night ahead, boys,” he says, and Burr hates the way he says it – _boys_ – when Preble’s only a few years older than them at most. Hates the way they’re treated like children, an inconvenient burden.

“It’ll be fine, though, she’s a tough old bird,” Preble slaps a hand on one of the ship’s posts, eliciting a dull _thunk_ from the wood.

“You’ve weathered these kinds of storms before, then?” Burr asks, needing the reassurance, needing to hear – _yes, it’s nothing to worry about._ Not that it will stop him – or Hamilton – from worrying.

“Sure, dozens of times,” Preble agrees, “nothing me and the men can’t handle. You boys just hunker down in your quarters, wait this shit out. Things will be bright and sunny tomorrow, mark my words.”

Burr doesn’t trust Preble, not after the man’s diverted course and the fact he is literally steering them into a hurricane, but he has no choice. He certainly can’t pilot the ship.

“Now if you don’t mind,” says Preble, “I’ve got some work to do. You boys can stay on deck for a little while longer, but things may get ugly real soon.”

He doesn’t wait for a goodbye, walks off, leaving Hamilton and Burr standing there as the storm clouds gather on the ever-closer horizon. Burr realizes Hamilton never said a word, and thinks, _that’s a first_.

 

***

 

Preble had been right on one account – things do, indeed, get ugly real soon. Over the next half-hour the bruise-colored sky deepens ‘til it looks nearly black. The wind picks up, too, shifting from a light breeze to a strong wind. Burr’s standing too close to the railing, at first, and his face is whipped by a spray of saltwater gusting in. The sea grows choppier, too, the ocean wrinkling and bucking with its growing turbulence. The motions of the ship grow more obvious, until Burr has to focus on keeping his balance.

Hamilton stays with him on deck, though when the ship catches one particularly large wave, rolling enough so that for a moment the angle changes, he grips Burr’s arm hard enough to bruise and doesn’t let go, even when the ship has steadied.

Burr doesn’t say anything, only leads them back to their quarters. Hamilton doesn’t release his arm until they’re descending the steps. If possible, their room feels even more cramped, filled up not only by their bodies but by their anxiety as well, as if it were a corporeal thing claiming its own space. The ship’s increasingly erratic movements are less obvious here, but Burr’s still aware of it, the subtle angle shifts. He feels slightly nauseous, and isn’t sure if it’s from the ship’s motions, or dread, or both. They retreat to their bunks, and the silence is strange. He can’t remember the last time he shared space with both Hamilton and silence; he’d assumed they were opposing forces, unable to exist with one another.

Burr knots and unknots his rope, finds an almost-peace in the motions. William’s words echo in his head: _the steps, when performed right, produce the same result every time_. A comforting predictability, one Burr hones in on as the boat pitches and Hamilton’s silence in the room is deafening.

 

***

 

Burr must have dozed off, because one moment he’s turning the rope over in his hands and the next he’s tumbling out of his bunk as the ship pitches wildly, angling so much that the floor and the wall almost changed places.

It’s not long to fall, and Burr has time to think, _fuck, not again,_ before he hits the floor, and, a half-second later, Hamilton crashes down, half on Burr and half on the floor. All the breath goes out of him and for the first time panic – not just anxiety but actual _panic_ , a feral, screeching beast with fangs and claws – begins to scrabble in Burr’s chest as he heaves and fails to draw breath. It seems to last an eternity but is only a second or two, and then Burr’s gulping air, inhaling huge lungfuls of it like a drowning man. He takes a quick inventory, decides he’s little more than bruised. Hamilton’s still on top of him, unmoving, and Burr’s worry turns to him. He lifts his free arm – the other is pinned beneath Hamilton – and touches his arm.

“Alex?”

Another moment of silence that seems to last forever, and then –

“Fuck, my head.”

Relief fills Burr, and some of his panic subsides – he can breathe, and Hamilton can speak. The world still spins.

Hamilton moves off Burr, slowly, moaning something that’s part curse and part groan. Burr gets to his feet, moving gingerly. Hamilton’s on his knees, then feet, and stands upright but his eyes are glassy and unfocused and he sways, unsteady. Burr catches him a moment before he can fall to the floor, moves to ease Hamilton into the lower bunk but also goes to his knees as the floor pitches again. Burr ends up almost falling into his bunk while holding on to Hamilton’s stirring body; they end up prone in his bunk, facing one another like lovers. It’d be comical, in a different situation.

There’s not enough space between his bunk and Hamilton’s to sit upright, so Burr props himself on to his elbow. He keeps an arm around Hamilton, holding him to hopefully save him from another fall should the ship pitch again.

“Alex?”

Hamilton’s eyelids flutter. He has strangely long lashes, curling out. It’s a strange thing to notice, but everything’s strange, now, below deck while a hurricane roars above them.

“’tooduptoofatsh,” Hamilton mumbles, something Burr can’t make out.

“Pardon?”

“I…stood up too fast. Sorry.”

Hamilton’s eyes open fully, and he seems to take stock of the immediate situation – crammed on a small bunk, facing Burr, Burr’s arm wrapped around him. Burr fully expects some snide remark, but Hamilton’s next words are genuine.

“Thanks.”

“You’re---” _welcome_ , is what Burr means to say, but before he can finish she ship doesn’t just pitch but _lurches_ , heaves to the side like a man shot in the knee. Luckily, the angle is in the other direction – port or starboard, Burr doesn’t know which, having suddenly forgotten any nautical directions he once knew - so rather than being dumped back on the floor Burr’s back is slammed against the wall and Hamilton is – once again – slammed into him, albeit by a shorter distance and with much less momentum. Burr waits for their direction to change again, even tightens his hold on Hamilton, expecting to be pitched to the floor, but the ship stays canted. A hideous groaning noise begins to fill the air, a creaking, strained sound.

“We hit something,” Hamilton’s voice is muffled against Burr’s shirt, “or something gave out.”

Although they remain angled, the broken ship continues to pitch in the thrall of the storm. Hamilton has one hand dug in Burr’s arm, digging his fingers into the bicep. Burr lets him. He can hear Hamilton’s breathing, coming fast, labored as if he’d been running for miles. Burr tries to calm his own galloping heart – inhale, exhale.

The quarters themselves seem alive, the floor shifting constantly, their few items clattering and rolling across the floor. A bottle of ink falls to the floor, shatters, and the room is soon permeated with the ammonia-like smell of ink.

“Aaron.”

Hamilton again. His voice sounds strange, choked, certainly not a voice Burr would have ever identified as Hamilton’s were he not looking at the man.

“I can’t stay down here. _We_ can’t. We have to find out what – what happened.”

Burr wants to argue – a large part of him wants to stay here, denned up like animals, riding out the wild angles on the too-small bunk. But he realizes Hamilton’s right – if the ship has been damaged, they need to know how badly, need to know if the ship is taking on water.

“Let’s go,” he says.

It’s easier said than done, because as soon as Burr stands up his head spins with vertigo and the floor moves beneath him. His knees almost give way but he grabs the ladder Hamilton uses to get up to his bunk and manages to steady himself. That awful groaning noise is louder, now, closer; like some creature advancing on its prey.

They make their way to the door like they’re moving through molasses, grabbing their bunks and then the doorframe as makeshift handles.

The trip down the hallway seems to take an eternity. They are thrown into the wall more than once. A trip that had taken thirty seconds not a few hours earlier now stretches on and on, an endless parade of small, mincing steps interspersed with the occasional low groan as one man or another was thrown off balance. Hamilton seems to be moaning more too, something low and awful in his throat, and Burr tries to block it out, tries to focus on getting to the deck.

Halfway down the hall they hit water, sheets of rain blown in by the storm overhead. Burr sputters as the rain hits his face, blinks crazily to get the water out of his eyes. By the time they begin their ascent to the deck they’re both drenched.

What greets them is a world turned upside down.

 

***

 

Men are running about, fast - too fast – and the wood floor beneath them is slick, the ship’s tilted wildly and rolling in the tumultuous waves. The wind is a horrible, screeching thing, a banshee overseeing the oceans, and every drop of rain feels like a stinging insect on Burr’s face. He hears muffled shouts, orders that the men surely cannot hear. He grabs Hamilton’s hand, soaked palms pressing together, to ensure that they don’t get separated, and they inch their way to the closet sailor, a man Burr doesn’t know. As they head towards him a wave appears from out of nowhere, seems to tower for a moment over the ship, and then crashes down, crashes over the deck, and the rush of water goes almost to Burr’s knees and he thinks _we’re going overboard, we’re going onboard and no one can save us_ , but both men keep their balance and the water drains from the deck.

They finally reach the man.

“What’s happening?” Burr shouts, throat protesting at the volume. It still sounds like a whisper compared to the storm raging all around them.

“Struck a reef,” calls the sailor, then, “damaged. A lot. Pray.”

Short, staccato sentences, but that one word – _pray_ \- tells Burr enough.

Another wave comes, larger than the last, and this time there’s a scream – high and desperate, cutting through the storm. It’s a scream Burr is familiar with. He heard similar screams from dying men.

_Prisoners. We’re fucking prisoners_.

_He calls ‘em davits._

Burr hears William’s voice echoing in his mind, crystal clear despite the storm, and can’t figure out why.

_Calls ‘em davits._

It’s a boring, pointless memory and Burr tries to clear his mind of it, if they are going down

( _pray_ )

he wants his thoughts flooded with loved ones, the voices of Sally, of Theodosia, of Jonathan Bellamy, not some memory of a tour of this wretched, godforsaken ship when William showed off – _oh_.

_They could even be used as escape vessels, this way_.

_Escape vessels._

_Escape._

_ESCAPE._

For once, Burr doesn’t overthink, he simply _acts_ – he moves toward where the boats are located, pulling Hamilton behind him. Hamilton has stayed quiet, almost lifeless, and when Burr risks a look back, Hamilton’s stare is vacant and faraway. But Burr can’t focus on that, he’s dragging them towards the boats, already going over the rigging system in his mind, trying to recall what the knots had looked like. He’d understood, in the passivity of daylight and quiet seas, how to release the boats, but now?

No matter. No time to mull over that, now.

For a moment there’s so much rain and wind in his eyes he feels blinded, can’t even _see_ the fucking access boats, only darkness, and he wonders if they’ve already been washed away. Burr’s too close to the railing anyway, it feels dangerous, precarious. But he remembers the dead look in the sailor’s eyes – _pray_ \- and with his free hand he swipes the water from his eyes, refocuses, and _there_ , he sees the ropes and pulleys that make up the davit, hears the _thunk_ of the access boat crashing against the ship’s side.

He tries to pull his hand out of Hamilton’s grip so he can work, and for a moment he can’t – Hamilton has him seized in a death grip. Burr ends up having to wrench his hand away from Hamilton, and feels horrible doing it, taking away the one thing Hamilton had to hold on to.

_I’ll apologize later_ , he thinks, and wastes no more time, begins to feel along the ropes, looking for the knots. He simply hopes Hamilton will stay behind him, will keep his balance. The ship still feels like a wild bronco beneath him and Burr can no longer recall what solid ground felt like. He undoes one knot that seems to do nothing, and dread wells in his stomach, festers there – _it’s not working it’s not working itsnotworking_ – but he undoes another knot and there’s a lurch, then the boat below them drops several feet. Burr can see that the next knot will have to be undone from within the boat.

“Alex!” he turns to shout, and – thank god – Hamilton listens, walks closer to him.

“We’re gonna jump into that boat, okay?”

Shouting it makes the plan sound absurd. Doubt sits in his mind, viscous and thick.

Hamilton is still staring, his gaze strange and unfixed, over Burr’s shoulder. He doesn’t respond.

“Alex?”

Nothing.

Burr slaps him, and his palm makes a strange, wet squelching sound on Hamilton’s cheek.

“Jump, okay?”

And finally, something comes into Hamilton’s eyes, a glint of light, and he speaks, just one word, but it’s enough.

“Okay.”

Burr grabs Hamilton’s hand; their fingers knotting together like rope, and takes him to the edge.

They jump.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> some notes:  
> \- _Chier dans la colle_ literally means "you shat in the glue." According to the internet, at least.  
>  \- [Human disaster Aaron Burr was not good at sleeping on ships](http://aaronburrssexdungeon.tumblr.com/post/132476215656/shall-go-early-to-bed-for-am-bruised-to-a-jelly)
> 
>  
> 
> thank you guys so much for reading <3 any and all feedback is cherished.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Burr looks up at their crooked ship, which now seems impossibly huge, a behemoth, and tries to swallow down his regret. The choice has been made. He grabs the oars from the bottom on the boat, slots them into place, and begins to row."
> 
> (aka I don't have a summary so here's a quote)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to my work for cancelling a Big Meeting and giving me time to do this instead

For a moment they are falling and Burr has enough time to regret this choice – this fucking stupid _awful_ choice – he made for both of them. But then they land in the boat, a tangle of limbs and splinters and something groans. Burr isn’t sure _what_ – isn’t sure if it’s Hamilton, or the ropes still holding them above the water, or even himself – or perhaps all three, in some awful chorus. He doesn’t wallow in the thought, though; he undoes the last rope, silently thanking William for the lessons. The last knot is undone, and then they are falling again, and the boat hits the roiling water with a _slap_ that reminds Burr of the way his palm had sounded on Hamilton’s wet cheek.

Burr looks up at their crooked ship, which now seems impossibly huge, a behemoth, and tries to swallow down his regret. The choice has been made. He grabs the oars from the bottom on the boat, slots them into place, and begins to row.

 

***

 

As a child, when he and Sally had lived with their uncle Timothy, they’d spent summers at a small house by the lake. He and Sally – and later, with the Ogden boys, Aaron and Matthias – had spent many summer days on the lake, all crammed together on the small rowboat. Burr had learned to swim at that lake, too, following Sally’s strokes and motions until he could control his breaths, knew how to move his arms and legs so that he could glide through the water rather than fight it.

The feel of the oars in his hands reminds him of those days, laughably. The worst he’d ever rowed through at the lake house was a summer drizzle, leaving their cheeks damp and eyelashes sparkling with droplets, like dew.

 _This_ , though – this is like rowing through a living thing, a bestial monster come to attack. Burr rows and nothing happens, they stay still, too close to the lurking thing that is

( _was_ )

their ship. He digs in, excavates the reservoirs of strength that live somewhere deep inside him, rows harder, faster, and finally – _finally_ – the boat begins to inch away from the floundering ship. He digs in as a wave overtakes them, soaks them, fills their boat ankle-deep with water.

They fight through the waves for an indeterminable amount of time, and as Burr rows, arms aching, he thinks of a line from a poem he’d once read: _time does not exist in such a dark place_.

Hamilton makes a noise, a low groan, and Burr realizes he was actually able to _hear_ the noise, and suddenly, he is aware of the new stillness. For the first time, he pauses, looks around. The _Pickering_ looks small, now, and has sunk further into the water.

In the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet.

Burr looks up and the sky above is a hideous yellow color, like old bruises. He’s transfixed by it, for a moment, stops rowing and stares upward instead.  The clouds in the sky are even stranger, somehow beautiful and terrible to look at all at once, and Burr wonders if this is what madness feels like, when it begins to set in.

Hamilton makes another noise, a word Burr doesn’t catch, and he takes his gaze away from that wretched sky. He looks at Hamilton, and finds Hamilton’s eyes fixed on him, and Burr wonders what horror and rapture had crossed his face amid the storm.

“Row,” Hamilton says, his voice breaking, “please, Aaron, _row_.”

Burr does.

He rows, muscles burning like fire, legs aching from bracing himself. Hamilton – who has come alive, somewhat, who has swallowed some of his fear – tries to take over for Burr, but his attempts are clumsy with this new skill, and Burr retakes the oars silently. The hurricane’s eye blinks, closes, moves on, and the yellow sky is replaced with darkness, the quiet replaced with the primal roar of the storm.

He tries to row through it, he does, and Hamilton works to bail out their boat, tossing cupped handfuls of water back into the ocean, a futile motion, shouting into the abyss. Burr’s lost most of his coherent thought, his mind narrowed down to two thoughts: _survive, row, survive, row_.

Blackness creeps at the corners of his vision, and he rows, no longer able to tell if they are heading in any real direction or if this is a Sisyphean journey. He can no longer see Hamilton, hopes – _prays_ – he’s still on the boat with Burr, and then more darkness comes, and he can’t see anything at all.

 

***

 

The first thing Burr is aware of is pain. For every inch of consciousness he regains he feels it twofold in terms of pain, fire and tension in what feels like every muscle in his body. He’s no longer even aware of any particular body part, it feels instead as if pain has stolen every individual part of him and created a new whole, a body made not a flesh and blood and bone, but of bruises and fire and _hurt_.  

He moans, and when his mouth opens it fills with something gritty, something that makes him sputter (and the act of doing so awakens more pain, legions of it protesting the sudden motions of his stomach and lungs). He lifts his head, realizes he’d inhaled sand, and—

 _Sand_.

Sand means he’s on land. Means he’s _alive_.

This seems entirely impossible, and Burr considers that this is the afterlife, instead, but surely being dead wouldn’t hurt so goddamn much. Paralyzingly slow, he comes up to his knees, tries to breathe through the dizziness that threatens to overwhelm him. He blinks – there’s sand in the corner of his eyes, burning – and looks at the pale white sand surrounding him. He notes a board, too, washed up near him, likely detritus from his boat.

 _Hamilton_.

He remembers him with a shock, looks around, and sees a body maybe a dozen feet from his own, motionless. He crawls to it – he can’t stand, not yet – and manages to flip the body over, a Herculean effort given his current state. Hamilton’s eyes are closed and his face is a terrible gray color, half of it covered in sand. Burr presses his ear to Hamilton’s chest, hears the distant thud of his heart and almost weeps with relief – he’s alive! He listens for several seconds more, reaffirming it, and realizes that although Hamilton’s heart is beating, his chest isn’t moving. He must have water in his lungs.

Burr had seen it happen before, when Mathias was young – they’d been swimming when the boy’s head had disappeared and Sally had started screaming. Their uncle Timothy – who, thank god, had been watching them that day – had run into the water and pulled the boy out, laid him on the earthy bank. When Mathias had stayed still, not answering their shouts, Timothy had leaned over the boy and pinched his nose shut, breathed into his mouth several times until Mathias had started coughing and spat a lungful of lake water in Timothy’s face.

 _Breath of life_ , Timothy had called it, later, regaling the tale to those who had missed it, his cheeks ruddy from drink. Mathias was part of the crowd, watching raptly, and Burr had watched with a raptness of his own. It had happened so fast, he felt like he’d seen someone die and be reborn in front of him.

 _Breath of life_.

Kneeling beside Hamilton, Burr gingerly opens the other man’s mouth. It falls open too easily, and Burr does his best not to think of corpses. Burr draws in a breath, deep, ignoring his own protesting muscles. He pinches Hamilton’s nose shut and breathes in his mouth like he’d seen Timothy do to Mathias all those years ago, forcing air into him. He’s never done it before, only watched, and he has no idea if he’s doing it right, but he keeps trying. He’s too tired and sore and scared to appreciate the absurdity of it, that he’s practically kissing Hamilton on the shore of some strange place (though it’s a thought that will occur later). He tastes salt on his lips, licks them unconsciously, and the taste of salt makes him stomach turn.

Inhale. Exhale into Hamilton. _Breathe._

He’s about to give up – it hadn’t taken Mathias this long to come back – when Hamilton spasms beneath him and coughs up seawater. Burr draws back in time to avoid being splashed. Hamilton keeps retching, spitting up water on the sand. Hamilton’s cough finally subsides, and though his breath still seems to rattle in his chest, he looks at Burr, and he’s fully _there_.

“ _Fuck_ ,” says Hamilton.

“Fuck,” agrees Burr.

Once it’s firmly established that Hamilton is here, that he’s breathing with no intention of stopping, a wave of exhaustion hits Burr, sudden and relentless. He finds his head dropping back to the sand.

“Aaron,” Hamilton’s voice is distant, like he’s shouting from a dream. Burr murmurs something incoherent in response.

“ _Aaron_ ,” louder this time, more insistent, “we gotta move.”

Moving feels impossible. Burr pries his eyes open – the lids feel they weigh a hundred pounds each – and looks at Hamilton.

“Resting,” he manages.

“Tide’s gonna come in,” Hamilton says, and Burr’s eyes open further, and yes, he can see the high water mark in the sand above his head. He sighs, and gets back on all fours – he still can’t stand – and together they crawl above the tide-line, crawl into hot, dry sand and collapse there, letting exhaustion overcome them. Without thinking, Burr drapes an arm over Hamilton as he had done in the bunk at the onset of the hurricane, and blessedly, Hamilton lets him.

 

***

 

When Burr wakes again it’s almost sunset and Hamilton is gone. He bolts upright, looks again for a body on the beach, and sees none. Every part of his body cries out in pain, but with some of his exhaustion removed it’s easier to withstand as his wits slowly return to him. He gets to his feet, gingerly, and though the world sways for a moment when he stands upright, things eventually steady and stay in place. He walks in short, hesitant steps, because the earth still seems to be rolling beneath him even though his eyes know it’s still and solid.

“You look ridiculous.”

Hamilton walks out of the foliage that borders the white-sanded beach, something round and brown, rough-looking, in his hand. Burr thinks it’s a coconut. Hamilton looks a hundredfold improved – his hair is pulled back (Burr has no idea with what), and he’s brushed most of the sand off him. Better still is the brightness in his eyes, the small smile.

“Sea legs,” Burr croaks, and his voice sounds hoarse and strange to his own ears. His throat feels raw from inhaling saltwater and trying to out-scream the hurricane. He desperately wants water, and as he realizes his thirst he begins to more fully assess the situation at hand and its implications.

_We don’t know where we are._

_We don’t have any water._

_We don’t have any supplies, period._

“Throat hurt?” Hamilton asks. He seems too-calm, a completely different creature than the man Burr had seen paralyzed by a hurricane, the man who had looked like a ghost.

Burr nods.

“One sec.”

Hamilton places the coconut on a rock, reaches into his boot and pulls out a knife – a knife! – and begins a few cuts, drills a hole into it.

“Drink,” he says, handing Burr the coconut. The coconut is strange, fibrous in his hands. He looks at Hamilton, who makes a tipping motion. Cautiously, Burr places his lips over the hole Hamilton had drilled, tilts it up like a bottle.

And something – not water, but close enough, something vaguely sweet and deliciously _liquid_ – pours into his mouth. He drinks greedily until the coconut is drained.

“Thank you,” his voice sounds better now – more human, more _him_.

Hamilton takes the husk from his hands, puts it on the rock.

“Alex?”

“Yes?”

“Where did you get a knife?”

“Started carrying it in my boot as soon as Preble let on we were off course. Didn’t trust me the motherfucker not to lock us up.”

“Thank god you’re a paranoid lunatic.”

Hamilton grins.

“You’re welcome, Aaron.”

Burr’s immediate thirst sated, they move on through the foliage. Burr has never felt so wildly lost in his life – he has no idea how large this place is, no idea if it’s an island or a continent, if there is water, food, civilization.

He knows nothing.

And this is a horrible feeling for a man who prides himself in being smart, in being prepared – here he is with nothing but the clothes on his back in the middle of god-knows-where.

“Have you seen anyone?” he asks Hamilton.

“Not yet. I haven’t been far. I only woke up a little bit before you. There are coconuts, at least. I know how to work with those.”

“Should we go looking?”

Hamilton considers.

“Tomorrow. It’s getting dark, and we don’t know who – or what – is out there. Better to stay out here until daylight.”

Burr agrees, and together they traipse to a flat, slightly cleared out area near the beach. Hamilton grabs another coconut, splits this one in half, and carves out pieces of the white flesh inside, offers Burr pieces. He’s never tried coconut before but finds he likes the flavor, though it’s not very filling and his stomach still feels empty after. Together they gather palm fronds and create an awkward lean-to against the trunk of the larger tree, a haphazard and possibly useless shelter.

“Why are we even bothering?” asks Burr, hating the mildly whiny tone in his voice, like a petulant child. His clothes are still damp, sticking to him, and sand has crept into all sorts of ungodly places.

“It’s rainy season,” Hamilton replies, “this will stifle any rain a little. Unless you’d like to stay wet?”

Burr is silent, and goes to get more palm fronds.

The space in the lean-to is cramped, keeps them close by one another, but after the past day (has it been only a day? It feels like weeks, like _years_ ) Burr has found himself remarkably used to being in Hamilton’s vicinity. They sleep back to back, but when the rain comes, as Hamilton had said it would, Burr turns over and throws his arm over Hamilton once more, curls into him, trying to make them both as small as possible.

Burr dreams of hurricanes and sickly yellow skies, and when he wakes in the predawn hours to find how he has wrapped himself around Hamilton, he doesn’t move. The solidity is comforting. Laying there like this he realizes Hamilton is still, is silent, a contrast to how he had slept on the ship. It seems strange, he’d expect Hamilton to be awash in nightmares - if a normal trip across the ocean spurred his restlessness, shouldn’t this kind of trauma send it into overdrive? Burr shifts slightly to peer at his face, which looks slack, strangely peaceful.

So Burr stays. He stays and counts his breaths, not realizing his breaths match Hamilton’s – inhale, exhale. _Breathe_. And eventually, he falls asleep again.

 

***

 

They wake at the same time to something that sounds like screaming.

Burr jumps to his feet, ignoring the protests in his back. His army training conditioned him on how to wake up in an instant. Hamilton’s on his feet beside him, knife in his hand, both still, listening. The noise comes again, and Burr realizes it’s not human –it’s some kind of bird, waking up with the sun and making sure everyone else is awake, too.

Hamilton groans.

“Fucking bird almost killed me,” he says, slipping the knife back into his boot. Burr nods in agreement, his body feeling heavy and shaky as the adrenaline drains away.

Reassured that there was no danger, Hamilton wanders few yards off, comes back with coconuts in hand.

“Breakfast!” he chirps, and Burr suddenly finds him almost as irritating as the bird. Unconcerned, Hamilton continues on, “we have coconut for breakfast, and coconut water for coffee!”

Burr drinks readily, but as he chews the coconut meat he finds himself already missing the hard biscuits aboard the ship.

“So,” he says, when they’ve finished, “should we explore?”

Hamilton eyes him critically.

“Might want to clean up first,” he says, “if we find someone, well – no offense, Aaron, but you’re a hot mess.”

Burr supposes he is. There’s still sand _everywhere_ , and his skin feels grimy. Hamilton doesn’t look much better, his ponytail has gone stringy, and his own clothes are dirt-stained. Anyone they ran into would think them madmen.

“Fair enough,” Burr says, and they head back to the ocean.

They near the surf and Hamilton stops abruptly, begins stripping off his clothes. Burr regards him, and at the stricken look on his face, Hamilton laughs.

“How else do you expect to get clean? Don’t be such a prude.”

It’s not even so much prudishness as it is the _absurdity_ that causes Burr to be shocked. They’d survived – _miraculously_ – and now here is Hamilton, naked and already waist deep in the surf, sinking to his knees and splashing water over his shoulders and chest. Burr disrobes more slowly, folding his filthy clothes and placing them on a rock to avoid (yet more) sand.

He walks to the edge of the waves and stops, a sudden lump in his throat. This ocean looks nothing like the raging beast that had overtaken their ship, that had damn near killed them both, but for a moment his body can’t tell the difference, is frozen, paralyzed. He finally wades in ankle-deep and when a wave crests in, splashes water up to his knees he actually cringes, as if the wave would turn into a tsunami and sweep him back into the sea, drown him, punish him for escaping its former wrath.

Nothing happens, of course. The water recedes and when Burr opens his eyes (they’d closed at some point, not wanting to see the tidal wave that was surely, surely coming) Hamilton is looking at him, head cocked.

“You okay?”

“Yeah,” Burr answers, and soon enough he’s up to his knees, then waist. He doesn’t go further than that, prefers to sink down and splash his chest and arms. The water’s sun-warmed and pleasant. He does the best he can to clean himself, washes away some of the sand and dirt, though he knows from previous experience that when he dries (if he ever does, it feels like he’s been perpetually damp) his skin will be vaguely tacky from the saltwater. Hamilton’s hair will be worse off, of course, will dry rough and tousled, and Burr is grateful for his own close-cropped hair.

Putting his clothes back on is _awful_ , and though Burr shakes them off as best he can they’re still damp and dirty. There’s a tear across the right knee of his pants, too. Hamilton doesn’t look much better, complaining as he slips back into his clothes.

They choose a direction at random and walk down the beach, following its gentle curve. As they walk, Burr scans the sand for footprints, for signs of inhabitants. There are prints in the sand, but they’re all animal prints.

“We should go into the trees,” Hamilton says, “look for roads, paths, anything.”

They do. It’s slower going in here, the underbrush thick. Branches scratch at Burr’s arms and mosquitoes and gnats buzz around him, causing him to constantly wave his hands about his face. Though it’s shaded here, and out of the sun, it still feels hot, no breeze coming off the water to cool him down. Hamilton, meanwhile, moves through the growth with a grace Burr has never seen from him, a comfort that seems strange.

 _He grew up like this_ , Burr thinks. It’s the first time he makes the conscious connection – yesterday, his mind had still been too addled to wonder why Hamilton knew exactly how to crack open a coconut, how to arrange the palm fronds into a makeshift shelter.

He doesn’t know too much about Hamilton’s upbringing, for as much as Hamilton talks, his own childhood was not a topic often broached, at least not with Burr. Burr knows the basics – grew up in the Caribbean, mother died before he saw thirteen, started working early. But he realizes he knows little of how Hamilton _survived_ in those times. Hamilton had grown up poor; Burr knows that – not because Hamilton had told him, but because Hamilton had always dressed like a poor man who finally found money, with some extravagance and fussy details, the kind Burr – who had not wanted for such things, growing up – had never given a second thought to.

 

***

 

They continue for about thirty minutes, seeing no signs of other people, only a small brown animal that runs by them so quickly Burr is hardly sure he’d seen it at all. Hamilton stops, so suddenly that Burr almost runs into his back. Hamilton’s head is cocked.

“Shh.”

Burr hadn’t said a word.

Hamilton changes directions, begins walking off the makeshift trail they were forging. Burr is slightly frustrated – they’d agreed to walk a straight line – but his frustrations are forgotten when they come upon a small, slow-moving stream, barely a foot across. Hamilton crouches near it, dips a finger in to the clear water and sticks the dampened finger in his mouth. Relief blooms in his eyes.

“It’s freshwater,” he says.

At that, Burr kneels beside him and dips his cupped hands into the stream, drinks readily from them. Water spills down his chin and onto his shirt but he doesn’t mind. The water tastes incredibly good, pure and wholly satisfying. He’s not sure how Hamilton even heard the stream, Burr certainly hadn’t – it’s small and almost silent, and they had been a good distance away when Hamilton had stopped and listened. Because _of course_ the man would have exceptional hearing – the better to hear men talking shit about him and respond, no doubt.

“We’ll follow it, later,” Hamilton says, “probably comes from a larger water source. We may have to make camp there.”

Burr realizes they’re no longer speaking like they’ll find anyone. Like they are already preparing to be survivors.

They leave the stream, though as they proceed on they take turns tying strips of cloth torn from their shirts to the trees so that they can find their way back to the water. It doesn’t matter much though, because shortly after they proceed on the foliage breaks back out on to the beach.

“Think it’s an island?” he asks Hamilton.

“Probably. There’s hundreds of ‘em, where Preble was going.”

Hamilton spits their old captain’s name. It occurs to Burr that the man’s probably dead now, drowned.

Small comforts.

 

***

 

The make camp near the river, this time. The lean-to’s a bit more refined, with both of them far more awake and attentive. Burr’s still bruised – it feels like everywhere – and he’s sure Hamilton is too, but neither complains.

Dinner is more coconuts, and Burr grimaces as he swallows.

“So,” he says, “if this is an island, and if we are alone, we need to make a plan.”

“Agreed,” says Hamilton, “I say tomorrow we walk the beach. Keep going ‘til we get back to where we started, or find a road. And if this place is an island, we...survive, I guess. Build a better shelter, or find one.”

“And find something to eat that’s not coconuts,” Burr adds. Hamilton laughs.

“They get old quick, right? Anyway. Figure out a way to fish and hunt. I’m sure we can find some mussels or clams too. Follow the stream, see where it leads. If the place is big enough, there might be caves, too. And we have to figure out what kind of animals are on here. That might help us figure out the place’s size.”

Burr notices he doesn’t say island. Because it’s not confirmed. He ignores what his gut cries out – _you’re stranded, you’re alone, you’re shipwrecked_.

They don’t know that. Not yet, anyway.

Without talking about it, they sleep close together again. The shelter only has only so much space. And if Burr wakes in the middle of the night to find Hamilton’s arm over him, well, he doesn’t say anything of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey look we finally got to the shipwrecked part.
> 
> notes:  
> \- [ In 1740 the Paris Academy of Sciences officially recommended mouth-to-mouth resuscitation for drowning victims](http://cpr.heart.org/AHAECC/CPRAndECC/AboutCPRFirstAid/HistoryofCPR/UCM_475751_History-of-CPR.jsp) so it's plausible Burr would know about it  
> \- [Aaron Burr and coconuts have A History](https://whatagrump.tumblr.com/post/131134047956/llassah-the-private-journal-of-aaron-burr) so naturally I wanted to work them in  
> \- DON'T TRY TO ESCAPE DURING A HURRICANE IN A TINY SHIP UNLESS YOU'RE IN A WORK OF FICTION
> 
> a n y w a y
> 
> all my love to those of you who have read this and commented and sent me INCREDIBLY nice tumblr messages, you are the main reason I'm pushing myself to publish (semi) frequently!


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They keep the sea to their left sides, and they walk."
> 
> (Exploration, survival, and Aaron Burr punches the beach.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought this chapter was written and then in an attempt to edit I ended up writing 1500 words for this because I was going to split it, then ended up...not splitting it, because there wasn't a good place to do so, and anyway, enjoy, I love you guys.

They keep the sea to their left sides, and they walk.

The goal is to walk until they end up in the exact same spot, or find a road, or something that suggests there’s civilization here.

(Though _here_ has never felt so indefinable a concept to Burr as it does now.)

Burr’s legs feel heavy, still sore from bracing in the boat. He lost his boots somewhere in the turmoil, so he walks barefoot. Hamilton had kept one shoe, but had taken it off before they disembarked on their scouting expedition, left it on the beach like some odd totem.

They walk on the wet, firm sand. Hamilton walks ahead of him, more energized than Burr, who is more used to scouting from the back of a horse than on foot. It’s hot already, and sweat begins to trickle down the back of his neck. Burr tries to keep a lookout as he walks, but there’s a dizzying sameness to this place – the blue of the ocean, a white strip of sand, then a vivid green of the foliage. It’s beautiful, really, the kind of tropical paradise Burr had read about in books, but up close it’s almost too much to bear.

He walks with the same sort of mechanical steadiness he employed on those cold, endless marches in the army. The kind where he does not think about walking.

He’s aware of someone beside him. Hamilton has slowed so he’s now walking beside Burr, in the wetter stretch of sand. Hamilton’s quiet, but Burr can practically hear him buzzing, the words zipping around inside him like a swarm of flies.

“Yes?” he says.

“Are you okay?”

Burr laughs, a short bark that’s devoid of any real humor.

“I’m shipwrecked, I haven’t seen anything other than the fucking ocean in two days, my legs hurt, I’m fucking hungry…should I go on?”

“Do you want to stop and rest?”

Burr does, but if he stops - if he so much as _pauses_ \- he isn’t sure his legs will move again.

“No.”

“A few more hours, then we’ll make camp for the night, okay?”

Burr nods. Hamilton speeds up again, and soon extends his lead over Burr. Burr can hear sounds drifting back, and realizes Hamilton is singing something, low, and he can’t quite make out the words.

Burr's legs have begun to protest despite his efforts to ignore them, so he changes tactics. Instead, he tells himself it’s just ten steps. When he reaches ten, he starts over. Just ten steps. Just ten.

He stops when he feels a hand on his arm, and his name, repeated.

“What?”

He’d zoned out, lost in the counting. He stops, and that was a mistake – he’s suddenly aware his legs are burning. His feet feel shrunken, wrinkled by the occasional wave and damp sand. His skin feels hot all over, wind-chafed.

“I said, I think we should stop for the night,” Hamilton says. He looks tired, too – there’s dark circles under his eyes. They move towards the trees. Burr stumbles in the loose sand, and Hamilton grabs his arm to steady him.

They drink coconut water and split the coconuts open so Hamilton can carve out pieces of the white flesh. Burr only eats a few pieces, despite Hamilton’s protests. Instead, he sits with his back to a tree, knees drawn up and elbows resting on them. Burr lowers his head into that space. He hears distant rustling as Hamilton moves off deeper into the woods, but doesn’t bother looking up.

He must have dozed off after that, because suddenly he’s being shaken awake – and none too kindly, either – and Hamilton’s kneeling beside him.

“Aaron?”

“What?”

He doesn’t mean to snap, but he’s _tired_.

“I found these, look.”

Hamilton picks up a yellow fruit that looks almost like an apple, but is more oval.

“Mangoes! I haven’t had these in years. Have you had them?”

_Mango_ – Burr doesn’t know that he’s heard the word before. It sounds odd. He certainly hasn’t seen these fruits. He watches with curiosity as Hamilton slices off a piece. When Burr takes it, it’s slippery in his hands and he almost drops it. He tastes it, cautious, and a rich sweetness explodes across his tongue. The fruit is like a dessert, almost unbearably sweet, delicious. Burr finishes the rest of his piece, a bit of the juice dribbling down his chin. He’s aware of Hamilton watching him.

“I take it you like it,” Hamilton says, carving off his own piece, then another for Burr. The second piece is as delicious as the first.

“It’s wonderful,” Burr says. The sugar in the fruit works wonders, as does having something that’s not a damn coconut. He feels more energetic, less tired.

“There’s several trees not far off. We’ll eat what we can tonight and tomorrow morning, carry a few with us. Hopefully if they grow here, they’ll grow all over this…place.”

He doesn’t say _island_. Neither of them do. Because naming things, well, it gives them power. It makes them real.

 

***

 

It doesn’t rain that night, which Burr considers a small miracle. He wakes stiff and sore, but he’s _dry_. They eat more mangoes for breakfast, and when they set off again, the ocean to their left side, they walk side by side.

“Is this what your home was like?” Burr asks.

“Kind of,” Hamilton says, “I don’t recognize all the plants. But people planted things more, cultivated them, so I don’t know what was wild and what was brought in. And I didn’t spend much time out in nature after…after mom died. I was busy.”

Burr is quiet, and grateful when Hamilton soldiers on. He’s never been the best at dealing with other’s tragedy, it makes him uncomfortable, unsure what to say.

“It was beautiful, though. There was a bay you could go to, at night, and the water looked like it was glowing, like light was just shining up through the water. Mom would take me and James, sometimes. She told us they were spirits of the dead.”

Hamilton has a wistful smile on his face.

“I don’t know if I believed that, but I still went back once, after she died. Said I missed her. Just in case. But mostly, I thought it was magic. I still do, really.”

“It wasn’t a trick of the light?”

“No, it was…it was a light coming from within. Glowing creatures in the water, I think.”

“Or magic.”

 Hamilton laughs, and nods.

“Yes, or magic.”

The land curves a bit more, and suddenly the landscape changes, but not in the way Burr had hoped. The beach gives way to a rocky outcropping, the waves turning to madcap froth between them. It’s like a gash amidst the tropical beach, a disturbance, and the rocks offer no more signs of civilization than the beach had. They curve inland, towards the foliage, and blaze a trail through the edge of the jungle. It’s loud, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks and Burr’s own huffing breath as he tries to snap branches out of his way.

As suddenly as it had come the rocky outcropping gives way to the white beach again, and they resume their walk on the shoreline.

“What about you?” Hamilton asks.

“Hmm?” Burr had been looking out, at a dark shape that had appeared for a moment out on the waves. He blinks, and it’s gone, if it had ever been there at all.

“Did you ever visit the beach?”

Burr laughs.

“Nothing like this. There was a lake, though, and we’d spend summers there. It’s where I learned to swim. And row.”

“Thank god you did.”

Burr laughs, though it’s not really funny. The beach stretches on, but with Hamilton beside him, a distraction, there’s no need to count steps.

 

***

 

A few hours later, they’re back to where they started – a trampled beach, the remains of a fire, and one shoe jutting out from the sand.

It’s a fucking island.

All the strength drains from Burr’s legs and he falls to his knees in the sand, slams one useless fist against the earth. He’d been able to push some of the feeling aside, hidden it away with the hope that they would find a road, that the beach would suddenly end in some small town, but now, back where they’d started, the realization that they are really truly _shipwrecked_ hits him like a sledgehammer.

“Fuck!” he yells. A common theme of this adventure, it seems.

“Start gathering rocks,” Hamilton says.

“What?”

“Rocks. As big as you can carry. Unless you’d rather stay here and punch the beach.”

Burr flushes, and stands up. The outburst was not his proudest moment, but surely it was _understandable_.

“Might I inquire why?”

“Tide’s coming in soon. We’re going fishing.”

Hamilton grins. Burr still doesn’t see the correlation - are they going to be dropping rocks on the fish? - but obliges.

Burr gathers rocks, and Hamilton constructs them into a V shape, the tip of the V pointing out into the ocean. When it’s done, Hamilton steps back, admires his work.

“When the tide comes in, it’ll cover the rocks, right?”

Already, the water’s splashing into the rock-enclosed area Hamilton has created.

“Fish come in with the tide, too. Hopefully a few will get penned in there when the tide goes back out. I’ll work on making a spear or something. You wade to those rocks, look for mussels.”

Hamilton gestures at a small outcropping of rocks, where Burr can see their uneven surfaces, things jutting out from the rocks at odd angles.

 

***

 

Hamilton disappears into the woods and emerges with a small stick that he sets to sharpening into a spear with his knife. Burr walks down the beach, closer to the outcropping of rocks that extend out above the sea about twenty feet out, and pauses. He’ll have to wade out – the water’s not deep, but the waves keep their own chaos. Burr rolls his pants up, resigned to the fact they’ll likely get drenched, anyway. He considers disrobing again, but the water’s too shallow to cover him, and the idea of wading out to the rocks nude while Hamilton sits on the shore and watching is one Burr finds unnerving.

The rocks are covered in mussels, black slick things that jut out in clusters from the damp rocks. Burr pries them off, has a handful before realizing he has no real way to carry them. He glances around, looking for something to place them in – a habit sprung from civilization, for of course here there is nothing but water and rocks. Sighing, Burr pulls off his shirt, arranges it into a sort of rucksack, and begins to fill it. The shirt works well enough as a vessel, and he fills it with as many mussels as he can, and only loses a few as he wades back to the shore.

Hamilton has laid aside a crudely carved spear and has gone to work making space for a fire, laying out tinder and larger pieces of wood. By the time Burr comes up to him, carrying his salvage, Hamilton is on his stomach, trying to coax a flame from the pieces of wood he’s working. Nothing happens, not even smoke, and Burr thinks he can see where Hamilton’s gone wrong – he’s not keeping the sticks snug enough, not generating the right amount of friction.

“Let me,” he says, and expects a fight - he always expects a fight, from Hamilton - but the man surprises him, and yields his tools over to Burr.

It takes Burr maybe ten minutes - which feels like an eternity, with Hamilton watching - but eventually there’s a spark that catches on the coconut husks they’ve laid below Burr’s fire making setup. Burr breathes this into a flame, and soon they have a small fire. The heat’s unnecessary - it’s been plenty warm here - but Burr enjoys the feeling of _drying_ as the fire bakes the seawater from his limbs.

Cooking is a bit of a disaster - they try cooking the mussels in a coconut shell, which catches fire so suddenly that Burr shouts and drops it into the fire. Eventually, they place rocks on either side of the fire, balance a somewhat flat rock on top over the flames, and spread out the mussels. It’s a precarious setup, and it seems to take the mussels forever to cook this way. The mussels finally open and Burr consumes them greedily (burning his fingertips in the process), they are gritty and have a strangely earthy taste, having not been cleaned or left to sit in water. They split one of the mangoes Hamilton had carried for dessert, and it is somehow one of the most delicious meals Burr’s ever had.  

“Tomorrow,” Hamilton says, “we’ll scout out a more permanent place to stay, see where the stream goes.”

“Sounds good,” says Burr, although at that word - _permanent -_ a childish part of him wants to scream in denial, wants to ignore the fact that they are shipwrecked, that they are on some godforsaken island, and that no one, thanks to Preble’s idiocy and greed, likely has the slightest idea of where they are.

That night it rains again, and although their fronds dissipate some of the rain, it is still all too miserable. Burr curls around Hamilton, for warmth more than comfort (he tells himself). Laying there, awake and miserable, Burr finds himself missing his bunk on the _Pickering_ , missing the hard (but gloriously dry) mattress. Burr stays awake for too long, his stomach rumbling despite the mussels he'd had earlier, thinking of all the things they don't have – containers, more knives, actual shelter. Thinking of all the odds stacked against them.

 

***

 

The next morning all signs of rain are gone, and the day is bright and hot. They head down to check Hamilton's trap, and much to Burr’s surprise there are honest to God _fish_ in there, trapped by the makeshift walls. Not many - five or six that he can see, and small, the kind most fishermen would throw back – but still. Actual fish. Hamilton grabs the spear he'd made yesterday, and starts trying to pierce the fish. Unfortunately, the spear is not as sharp as they needed, or perhaps Hamilton's movements are simply too slow. Burr tries, too, but his attempts are even worse than Hamilton’s, stabbing into empty space where the fish had been moments ago.  They end up scooping the fish out with hollowed coconut shells, emptying them out onto a large outspread leaf that Hamilton finds. Burr somehow finds this horribly, incredibly, cruel, and he has to look away as the fish flop there, slowly suffocating in a world that is not meant for them.

They cook the fish in the same awkward manner that they had the mussels, and the overall result is fairly disgusting in theory, with the fish being alternately burnt or nearly raw. Still, Burr thinks they are delicious, and eats every bit of his share. It is comforting, he supposes, to know that they likely won't starve: they have fish, mussels, coconuts, and whatever else the foliage may yield. They have water, too, and Burr supposes that they should count themselves lucky, that they have washed up on this rather paradise-like island instead of some barren strip of beach. Lucky that they washed up anywhere at all, when by all rights they should have drowned under a yellow sky.

Strange, the thoughts of the shipwrecked: _we were lucky._

 

***

 

They follow the stream, and it turns out Hamilton was right (it seems to often turn out that way, a fact Burr both admires and begrudges). The stream does lead to a larger water source, a pond that is rather small compared to the lakes and oceans Burr grew up knowing, but here, it seems like an oasis, impossibly huge and beautiful.

Better still is what Hamilton finds nearby - a small cave created by tumbled rocks. The interior is cramped, only a bit larger than their old quarters on the ship, but it will no doubt provide better shelter than a few smashed-together palm fronds, will keep them dry on rainy nights.

“We can clear out the space in front of it,” Hamilton says, already pacing the area, “dig a fire pit. We’ll build a bigger trap for the fish, maybe figure out how to build some other traps…”

Hamilton continues on, laying out plans for their camp, for their survival. Burr is slowly accepting the reality of it: that they have no idea when, or even _if_ , rescue will come, that they are alone in this strange world. They are the only ones responsible for their survival.

They’re able to wash their clothes in the stream, rinse some of the sand from them without the tinge of salt. They lay them out to dry over rocks, and he and Hamilton move into the larger pond. It’s deep, in the center, deep enough that Burr’s feet can’t touch the ground. Hamilton swims like a fish, easy, keeps diving under. He bursts up next to Burr, an explosion of water, drops flying off his loose hair.

“Feels good, doesn’t it?” Hamilton asks, and Burr agrees. The pond is cooler than the ocean, and when Burr gets out his skin breaks out into gooseflesh. Hamilton seems to stay in forever, at first dipping and diving and then just dog paddling, moving aimlessly as Burr dresses. His clothes are still damp, but he’s been naked long enough, remaining unclothed outside of the water makes him feel far too vulnerable, too exposed.

 

***

 

They return to the beach for their things - a laughable word, considering that their _things_ consist of a few empty coconut shells and the flat rock they’ve used for cooking. Burr wades out to gather more mussels (re-staining his arms and legs with salt, he knows, but his growling belly overrides his desire to be clean). He gathers bunches of them, wants a _feast_ tonight. He returns with so many he can barely carry them all, and Hamilton just laughs, and takes off his own shirt so that they can split the bounty in two as they return to their new campsite.

This time, Hamilton shows Burr how to prepare the mussels properly. They let them sit in freshwater for an hour, allowing them to eject the grit and sand. While the mussels soak, they dig out a fire pit which they surround with rocks. They are even able to carry over embers from their old fire by the beach, and soon enough they have a fire going here and begin to cook they meager bounty.

The mussels taste much less like sand and grit this time, and Burr feels less starving, and can actually taste the flavors of them, the brininess. They’re painstaking to eat without proper utensils, but Burr has managed his way through a good amount before he notices Hamilton isn’t eating, is shifting restlessly like a child.

“Are you okay?” Burr asks, mouth full. He figures manners matter less here.

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton says. Burr stares. He isn’t sure what Hamilton’s apologizing for. Or maybe it’s a preemptive apology, maybe Hamilton’s planning something he knows he will need to apologize for.

“Sorry for what?”

“For leaving you alone to save us.”

_Ah._ That quiet paralysis, that dead-man’s stare. Burr hadn’t been sure how much Hamilton even remembered of their awful escape.

“It doesn’t--” Burr begins, but Hamilton cuts him off.

“It does matter, Aaron. I froze up. I felt like I was floating, watching us, but I couldn’t make my body move, I couldn’t even fucking _speak_. Because it felt like I was also back home, I was watching—watching it all fall apart, waiting to die, because I should have died when I was seventeen, and I should have died on that boat, and I just--”

Hamilton inhales, a piercing noise that sounds a hair’s breadth from a sob.

“Hey,” says Burr, “it’s okay. I got you off the boat, but you saved us on here. I don’t know how to catch fish. I didn’t bring a knife. I didn’t even know you could drink coconuts. Your debt’s paid.”

“It’s not,” says Hamilton, his voice quieter, “you should have left me there. Most people would have. You don’t even like me that much.”

Burr looks at him, startled.

“I’ve never said that.”

“You never needed to.”

“I don’t dislike you, Alex, I’m just…” Burr pauses, considers how to put it into words – considers how _much_ he wants to put into words, “you come in like a hurricane – pardon the pun – and suddenly you’re Washington’s right hand man, you’re engaged to a Schuyler, you’re this _darling_ of the revolution…and I’m not. Washington ignores if not outright dislikes me, I’ve no engagements -”

(He thinks, pained, of Theodosia.)

“- and even though I did everything right, I led my troops to victory after victory, Washington doesn’t seem to notice. It’s why I took this position. I need Washington’s favor.”

Burr breathes. It’s more than he’d meant to share, but it’s like opening a festering wound, and he lets it spill.

Hamilton’s dark eyes are unreadable.

“So…you’re jealous of me?”

“Not you. Of what you have. Of what you were given.”

At that, Hamilton’s eyes flash and his expression turns tense.

“I wasn’t given a fucking thing, Aaron. I lost _everything_ back in St. Croix, I came here with nothing, and I earned my place with Washington, just as I earned this job.”

Funny, that they both still speak about the job as if any day now they’ll appear in France.

“You’re right,” Burr admits, “I shouldn’t have put it that way.”

“I earned those things,” Hamilton repeats, as much to himself as to Burr.

“I know, Alex. You’re right.”

Hamilton settles, placated for a moment before speaking again.

“So you don’t dislike me, then.”

“Wouldn’t have saved you if I disliked you.”

“Indirect way of saying ‘I do like you, Alex.’”

Hamilton’s smiling, and teasing now – the former gravity of his apology gone – and the smile does something to Burr’s stomach. Or maybe it’s just the mussels.

 

***

 

Burr’s stomach still feels a little strange after his conversation with Hamilton - damn mussels - so after supper he heads back to the beach, intending to take a walk, try to settle the strange uneasiness. But when the treeline breaks and he steps out onto the sand, he looks up - really  _ looks _ \- and almost gasps aloud.

The sky is a frenzy of stars, the night cloudless, allowing them their full glory. The moon, nearly full, casts an ethereal light. He’s overwhelmed at this, the glut of stars above him, the alternating colors in the sky. He takes a few steps further out, then sits, neck still craning up, trying to make sense of the celestial display before him. 

“It’s easier if you lay on your back,” says a voice, and Burr jumps before recognizing Hamilton - of  _ course _ it’s Hamilton, they’re the only two people here, aren’t they?

Without waiting for a response, Hamilton sits beside him, settles backward until he’s flat on his back in the sand, looking skyward. Burr, tentative, settles beside him. The sand is still warm, cradling the earlier afternoon’s heat, and it’s more comfortable than he’d have imagined. 

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Hamilton says, and Burr murmurs an assent.

“I don’t recall there being so many,” he says. Hamilton laughs, and Burr feels the subtle shift in the sands at the action. Hamilton’s close, shoulders almost touching, and Burr can feel that heat, too, a different sort than the one offered by the sand. His stomach is acting up again, fluttery and strange.

“There are,” Hamilton says, “some are more visible here than at home. How often did you really  _ look _ , Aaron?”

Burr’s embarrassed to find he can’t actually recall - he’s never given much thought to the stars, has only appreciated their beauty in a passing fashion. 

“Not often,” he admits.

“When we get home,” Hamilton says, and Burr is stupidly glad that he says  _ when _ and not  _ if _ , “take a moment. Notice the stars. Especially there --”

Hamilton points, fingers moving in the sign of a cross, and for a moment Burr can’t tell which of the hundred million stars he’s pointing at, and then suddenly it’s obvious - a set of stars closer than the rest, brighter.

“Southern Crux,” Hamilton says, voice sounding wistful, “see how it makes a cross? We can’t see it, at home - too far North - but mom showed it to me, when I was a kid. Sailors use it to find their way.”

“Guiding people home,” Burr murmurs, “if only we could follow.”

“Gotta learn to walk on water, first,” Hamilton doesn’t engage with Burr’s melancholy, but he shifts closer, and Burr feels the brush of his skin against his shoulder. He waits for Hamilton to move again, but he doesn’t. Neither does Burr.

“And there’s Centarus -” Hamilton continues, tracing a haphazard pattern above the Crux, one Burr cannot make sense of. He stares until his vision blurs, then closes his eyes for a moment, trying to refocus. When he opens them again, the constellation still seems nonexistent. It’s all chaos.

“I don’t see it,” he admits, and Hamilton shifts, takes Burr’s arm, points it at a sequence of stars.

“There’s the head,” he says, shifting Burr’s arm back, tracing, “the arms, the forelegs. The back, the tail. Sitting right over the Crux.”

For a moment more the sky holds back its mysteries, and then suddenly the scales fall from his eyes and he sees the shape Hamilton had been describing. A centaur. 

“Oh!” he exclaims, suddenly delighted. The pattern is so obvious now. He wonders what else the universe holds.

“There’s tons more,” Hamilton says, as if reading Burr’s mind, “more than I know.”

“We can make up our own,” Burr says. Hamilton had released his arm, but their shoulders still touch. Despite the chill of the night, Burr feels warm. Almost comfortable. 

Almost like home.

 

***

 

They find a sort of cautious rhythm in the days. They build a larger fish trap, and more of them, marking out segments of the beach. Hamilton gets better at spearing them. They find other plants which Hamilton deems edible, plants he remembers from childhood, though Burr still waits and watches Hamilton eat them first.

It’s not exactly enjoyable, but it’s more pleasant than Burr had ever thought being shipwrecked (especially shipwrecked with _Alexander Hamilton_ , of all people) could be.

They mark the days with notches in a tree. The notches build up until one day Burr looks at them and realizes they’ve been here for two weeks, which seems both an impossibly short and impossibly long time.

He and Hamilton are getting along, too, which Burr finds almost as miraculous as the fact they have food, water, and shelter. It strikes Burr one night, as they sit near the fire, laughing over some stupid joke Hamilton told, that they have become friends.

 

***

 

They awake one day to the sound of pounding rain against the cave they’ve made into their quarters, and a wet mist blown in from the entrance. This is unlike the rains they’re used to, the gentler rains that leave things wet but not soaked; this is a storm, a raging, wild thing.

“We gotta cover up the fire!” Hamilton says, and Burr scrambles up. They’ve been able to keep the embers alive most nights, which has kept them from repeating the painstaking process of remaking fire with almost no tools each night.

They rush out and Burr is immediately smacked with a wall of rain – cold rain, at that. He and Hamilton cover up the pit with fronds as best they can, and then they both run back into the cave as lightning splits the sky and thunder rolls in afterward, a boom that momentarily eclipses all other sounds.

The cave that is not meant to linger in; they’ve used it as sleeping quarters and little else. It was too small to bring fire into, too small to store much in other than a few essentials. They’d covered the floor in fronds, made a thicker pile for sleeping.

It’s dark in the cave, too, the light that usually shines in from the entrance made dim by the storm. Burr can see his hands in front of his face but not much else, finds his way to the bed by feel, hands out in front of him, hunched over awkwardly to avoid hitting his head on the low ceiling.

Burr settles onto their makeshift bed, back against the rock wall. He considers trying to nap, but he’d slept all night, and adrenaline still pumps through his body from running out in the storm.

There’s a grunt and the press of Hamilton’s shoulders as Hamilton sits beside him.

“I’m freezing,” Hamilton says, “we’re on a tropical island, and I’m _freezing_.”

Hamilton leans into him, shivering in a way Burr is pretty sure is manufactured, only to pull back abruptly.

“You’re soaked, Aaron. Let your shirt dry, at least.”

Burr looks over, realizes Hamilton’s taken off his. Burr debates, but only for a moment – the wet fabric clings to him, cold, and it’s glad to be divested of it. Once he’s laid it out Hamilton’s arm presses against him again, bare skin to bare skin, and Burr’s heart speeds up for a moment. But Hamilton’s _warm_ (despite his protests to the contrary), so they stay there like that, listening to rain.

For all of maybe five minutes.

And then Hamilton’s shifting, restless. The more enclosed the space, the more restless Hamilton is, Burr has realized – when they’re out on the island, gathering fruits and tubers or laying traps, Hamilton is energetic, but in a controlled way. In these confined spaces, dammed in by a rainstorm, the energy has nowhere to go and Burr is left trapped with it.

“Settle down,” he tells Hamilton, who has cracked what seems like every joint in his body, who’s shifting constantly.

“I’m fucking bored,” Hamilton complains, his voice plaintive.

Burr sighs. Being confined with an awake Hamilton is like being confined with a child.

“Question or command?” he asks.

“What?”

“Question or command…?”

“Still don’t understand.”

“The game? We played it in school, usually as a way to get the girls to kiss you. You pick if you want to answer a question, or obey a command.”

“Question.”

That surprises Burr. He’d thought Hamilton would have picked command, for sure.

“Uh…what happened with your engagement to, ah, Eliza?”

Burr regrets the question almost immediately, but the darkness seems to encourage this kind of talk, and the game has lain ground and reasoning for the question to present itself.

“Ah,” Hamilton says, and Burr is getting ready to say _you don’t have to tell me_ when Hamilton speaks, “I asked for her hand shortly before Washington offered me this position. I offered to elope with her, take her with me, but at the news I was leaving for France her father reneged on his permission for our engagement. I think she might still have left with me, but when I stopped by the next day, the house was empty…”

“Shit,” says Burr.

“Yeah.” A pause. “Your turn. Question or command?”

“Question,” Burr says.

“Who was the woman you were seeing before we left?”

“I wasn’t--” Burr protests – it comes naturally – but Hamilton cuts him off.

“We know there was someone, Aaron. Besides, who am I gonna tell?”

He has a point.

“Her name was Theodosia,” Burr says, and realizes a beat too late, that he’d spoken of her in past tense – _was_ – as if she were dead, “and she was married. With children.”

“Shit, Aaron--”

“Married to a British officer.”

At that, Hamilton laughs, his shoulder shaking against Burr, a strange friction.

“You _dog_!”

Still laughing. Burr joins in.

“I can’t decide if that’s helping us win the revolution, or just giving them more cause to attack.”

Hamilton’s laughter fills the cave, and it feels nice, like this, and Burr realizes he’s no longer cold.

“Question or command?”

“Command.”

No pause.

“I command you to, ah…” Burr’s mind goes blank for a moment. The games of this type he’d played in school had been largely centered on the girls, “run out in the rain and get me a coconut.”

Hamilton groans, but gets up, crosses the short expanse of the cave and ducks out into the downpour. He’s back in less than thirty seconds and rolls the coconut towards Burr, but misses in the dark, and Burr hears it strike the wall nearby.

“I hate this game,” Hamilton says, but he sits back beside Burr, pressing his wet skin to Burr, and then shakes his head, sending water flying everywhere.

“Fuck!” Burr says, out of surprise more than anything else. He wipes over his face with a palm, “bastard.”

“Got that right,” Hamilton says – cheerier, now that he has made Burr share in his discomfort, “question or command?”

“Command,” Burr says. He figures fair’s fair. He expects to be sent back out into the rain.

“I command you to kiss me.”

Burr’s silent, then, aware of his breathing, of his heart (which has sped up in his chest – why?).

“You said it’s why you played, to get the girls, you don’t--” Hamilton is stumbling a little, and Burr doesn’t think, he just leans over, touches his lips to Hamilton briefly, long enough to feel a slight scratch of beard and the _softness_ of Hamilton’s lips and then he pulls back, glad for the darkness, glad Hamilton can’t see the way his cheeks have flushed.

Hamilton’s silent, too, and Burr expects some smart-aleck comment but there’s nothing and that’s worse, and Burr’s suddenly sure he crossed some line, over played some joke, when Hamilton gets up.

“I’ll be back in a minute,” he says, and goes back out into the storm, moving hunched over as to not hit his head on the cave’s ceiling, leaving Burr with his bare back pressed against the wall, replaying the moment, preparing his apology. Not that he should have to – Hamilton’s the one who issued the command, even if it had been a joke.

Burr licks his lips and tastes rainwater.

 

***

 

When Hamilton finally returns, wet and strangely quiet, Burr falls over himself apologizing.

“It was a joke; I was just following the command, I’m sorry, Alex…”

“It’s fine,” says Hamilton, although his voice sounds odd, somehow thick, “it was a joke.”

The game is over, and Burr turns to face the wall, pretends to sleep, and Hamilton lets him.

Just a joke.

Burr lays there on the ground, feeling the cold of Hamilton’s absence – he doesn’t think about it, but they’re often close at night or when the temperature drops, sitting beside one another or sleeping like spoons in a drawer, back to chest, each man using the other’s body heat in lieu of the blankets they lacked. It was a simple survival tactic, one they never discussed because it never _needed_ to be discussed.

Burr hopes things won’t change. He’s cold here, alone.

 

***

 

The storm abates, finally, and as soon as the rain lets up Hamilton’s gone again. He doesn’t tell Burr where he’s going, which is strange. They’re rarely far apart, here, and Burr has some childish fear that they will become separated, lost from one another. He considers following Hamilton, for a moment, but decides against it – the man obviously wants to be alone. And besides, Burr is no tracker, Hamilton would spot him a mile away and then Burr would be left trying to explain himself. So instead he busies himself near their small camp, clears up debris, restacks their now-soaked firewood. Burr goes back into the cave. There’s not room inside the cave for much, but they keep a few pieces of wood and tinder in there so they can rebuild their fire after especially rainy nights. Burr grabs these, goes to work outside remaking their fire. He has a moderate flame when Hamilton returns, looking flushed and disheveled, hauling two massive pieces of wood.

“What is that?” Burr asks.

“Washed up on the beach,” Hamilton replies, “thought they’d come in handy. Was planning to go scout for more. Wanna come?”

“Sure.”

And just like that, Burr feels forgiven for his stupid transgression in the cave.

 

***

 

The beach is full of detritus. Burr finds a conch shell, a large white one streaked with red that he picks up and carries with him, aware it’s impractical but besotted by its elegant shape.

They find more boards, some whole, and some splintered. Burr notes what looks like a knife-gouge in one, and it’s only then that he thinks to question their origin.

“Alex, do you think these are from the _Pickering_?”

“Probably,” Hamilton says, “that, or some other unlucky ship nearby. You saved us, Aaron.”

Burr doesn’t feel like a savior, he feels sick. He hasn’t though too much about the ship’s fate, because there were really only two, and neither good.

Number one: the _Pickering_ weathered the storm, and they were fools to leave.

Number two: the _Pickering_ sank, and everyone they knew on board was now dead.

Burr thinks of William, of his bright eyes and quick hands, feels another pang. He doesn’t care about the captain, and hadn’t known the other sailors too well, but he had liked William – had, perhaps, seen some of himself in the boy.

(Hell, but for the grace of god Burr could have _been_ William, had he been orphaned by poor parents instead of rich ones.)

They bring their bounty back to the camp – several boards of various sizes. Burr is unsure what they can do with them – they don’t have a hammer, or nails, or any building supplies. They end of using one of the larger ones to create a sort of precarious bench by balancing it across two rocks. The others they set aside, a stack to be utilized later. It feels strange, having this piece of civilization with them when Burr has become almost accustomed to wilderness. The boards feel strange, out of place.

Everything feels out of place.

Burr places his conch shell atop the stack of boards, looks at the juxtaposition: their civilized life, and their island life. He supposes that might be a bit dramatic, but it feels that way. He’s watched the notches grow on the trees, worked with Hamilton as they made their place more and more permanent, the making of their own odd civilization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> anyway this wasn't as slow burn as I wanted it to be but DON'T WORRY I've still got plenty more problems in store for them
> 
> though heads up it might be _slightly_ longer before the next update because holidays and some plot changes I need to edit in to the future chapters I've drafted
> 
> notes:  
> \- St. Croix (where Alex grew up) apparently has some [lovely bioluminescent bays](http://www.gotostcroix.com/st-croix-blog/bioluminescent-bays-st-croix/)  
> \- [[Truth or dare] has existed for centuries, with at least one variant, "questions and commands", being attested as early as 1712](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Truth_or_dare%3F)  
> \- (SLIGHT MOANA SPOILER) Burr putting the shell on the ship's wood is a homage to that Moana scene because come on, that movie is amazing and came out at a very fitting time for me, apparently
> 
> as always, any and all comments are much loved


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Staying 'proper,' getting hurt, and trying to avoid certain thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things get a little more explicit this chapter, though probably not in the way we all hope for.
> 
> also, warning for internalized homophobia that was likely typical to the time and some semi-graphic description of injury/illness 
> 
> and as of this posting, this is officially my longest piece of work. yay?

That night, to Burr’s relief, Hamilton beds down next to him. They don’t talk about that morning, about that misguided game, and that’s okay with Burr,

( _talk less_ )

he’s just glad for Hamilton’s warmth. Hamilton’s asleep before long. Burr can read his breathing like a book, after a fortnight of sharing a bed (or, more aptly, a sleeping space); he finds he’s learned many things about Hamilton that he never would have thought he’d know.

(Like how his lips feel, for example. The taste of rainwater.)

Now, forgiven, Burr finds himself dwelling more on the kiss than the aftermath. Why had Hamilton even said that at all? It had been a joke, sure, but he shouldn’t have issued a command without at least some expectation that it would be fulfilled.

Hamilton stirs in his sleep and shifts closer to Burr, until their bodies are nearly flush with one another. There’s usually more space between them – when he actually sleeps, Burr prefers a bit more distance – but the earlier storm had left the cave with a damp chill. They had both elected to sleep without their shirts, had spread them out to dry instead. They’re close enough that Burr can feel the ridges of Hamilton’s spine against his chest, can see his shoulderblades protruding from his back like wings. He’s lost weight – they both have – but Burr hadn’t really examined it so closely, the changes on their bodies.

Hamilton shifts again, almost squirms, ass flush against Burr’s groin. The friction causes warmth to pool in his gut, a warmth that turns to heat as Hamilton moves again.

Since getting shipwrecked, Burr hadn’t paid much thought to his libido – a restricted diet, constant exercise, and stress had mostly negated it, or so he’d thought – but at these motions, at the warmth of the body pressed against him, that slight movement, the part of him he’d been ignoring seems ready to make itself known.

Burr feels himself starting to get hard and rolls over, the movement causing Hamilton to shift, his breathing changing.

Burr lays facing the wall, facing away from Hamilton, willing his thoughts elsewhere, willing them away from the feel of the body pressed against him, the warmth and movement.

 

***

 

Burr wakes with the previous night’s desire still kindled low in his belly, embers to a fire not yet extinguished. He makes some excuse to Hamilton, heads out on his own. Once he’s far enough away he shucks his pants to knees and takes himself in hand, already hard. He tries not to let himself think of anything – of any _one_ – but when he comes (it only takes a few strokes, less than a minute, but in his defense, it had been _weeks_ ) he’s imagining Hamilton, bare-chested, imagining pinning him into the ground, imagining Hamilton squirming against him, grinding—

 _Fuck_.

Burr moans into his arm, unable to help it, come spilling out over his hand. His mind, that traitorous thing, is still playing those images – Hamilton, with head thrown back, throat bared – but now that Burr’s got his wits back about him he’s able to quell such aberrant thoughts. He cleans himself off the best he can, refastens his pants. He still feels keyed up, still feels those images in the far recesses of his mind. His release had only tamped them down, had not rid him of them entirely, a fact that unsettles Burr.

He heads back to the camp, and when he returns Hamilton looks at him with an unreadable expression, but says nothing to belie it, only asks Burr if he’d like some coconut.

 

*******

 

Burr has always been good at rationalizing. So he explains his....reaction to Hamilton’s sleep-movements as a simple response to a physical stimulus. They’d been warm and Burr had been half-asleep, and really, there’d been nights when Theodosia had moved against him in similar ways so _that’s_ no doubt what his body was recalling. Those facts aside, it had been weeks since he’d had any kind of release, of course he was going to be on some kind of hair-trigger.

The reaction meant nothing.

Burr knows he likes women – he could spend days with his head between Theodosia’s thighs, two fingers inside her, crooked and rubbing slow, his tongue on her moving in lazy circles. He’s no _sodomite_.

And the kiss? Well, that had been a command, a game. Just a joke between friends gone awry, even if sometimes he still imagines the taste of rainwater.

 

***

 

Though--

There had been a boy, once. Jonathan Bellamy. Bellamy had been several years older than Burr, and they had been close friends, had spent nights together in shared space, backs pressing against one another. Once, when they were alone on the lakeside, not long before Burr was to leave for the army, Bellamy had stroked his cheek, called Burr _my boy_ with a tenderness that had caused Burr to feel warm and dizzy all over, like he’d caught a fever. Nothing else had transpired, though they’d sat shoulder to shoulder and Burr had been acutely aware of every inch of his body that held contact with Bellamy.

They’d continued to write one another when Burr was away, and Bellamy’s response to Burr’s first letter – _It rains, my boy, excessively. Does it not drop through your tent? Write often_ and _I was infinitely surprised to hear from you in the army. I can hardly tell you what sensations I did not feel at the time. Shall not attempt to describe them, though they deprived me of a night’s sleep_ – had left Burr sleepless too, thinking about his friend, about that hand tracing his cheek.

He’d meant to ask Bellamy to describe those feelings in more exactness, to tease the information from him, but not long after that Burr received word of Bellamy’s death.

Alas, no more.

And none of that matters, because Bellamy had been as Hamilton was now – a friend. A dear friend, even.

(Had he ever imagined that word would go hand in hand with Alexander Hamilton? He thinks not. Life changes in a moment.)

All this, though, makes Burr more careful. He bathes alone, and when Hamilton bathes, or swims in the ocean like some damned otter Burr finds reason to work elsewhere, as to keep from imposing on Hamilton’s modesty. Hamilton doesn’t question the change of behavior, which Burr had taken as assent.

At night, he sleeps facing the other way, back to Hamilton, and if he wakes to find he has turned towards him the way plants turn towards the sun, well, he turns back over.

Sometimes Hamilton’s arm wraps over him, and Hamilton presses against his back. Burr allows this, for it is not his doing. He cannot be held at fault for these actions.

 

***

 

Another week passes, like this, Burr utilizing a hyper-vigilance about his actions. He sleeps poorer for it; his body electric with _staying proper_ , which he knows on some level is ridiculous.

But still. He dreads the thought of Hamilton waking to Burr’s hard cock prodding into his backside. There was enough strangeness between them with some stupid kiss, and Burr can’t bear the thought of that strangeness coming again, the fear of being alienated, of Hamilton’s certain disgust.

In his exhaustion, Burr is careless when gathering mussels. He slips, and something sharp cuts into his leg, right near his calf, deep and painful enough that he cries out. Blood rushes out from the cut, blooming like roses in the water, the saltwater stinging against the open wound. He examines it awkwardly – the cut’s deep, but he can’t see bone, and he supposes he should be grateful. Walking back is an exquisite sort of torture, saltwater filling the cut, and by the time he reaches the shore he’s limping. Hamilton notices this, runs over, wraps an arm around Burr’s waist. His eyes glance down and Burr notes how they widen at the blood.

“It’s not that bad,” he says, “I just slipped, and cut myself. It’s fine.”

“It doesn’t look fine,” Hamilton says, “let’s get you back to camp.”

His leg throbs like a heartbeat, but the pain recedes without the constant assault of saltwater, and he disengages himself from Hamilton’s grasp, walks the last few yards to the camp himself. Still, Hamilton insists Burr let him examine the wound, and Burr obliges, sitting on a rock and propping his leg on the other rock nearby. Hamilton hunkers down, fingers prodding tentatively at the wound, which makes Burr suck air in through his teeth even at the gentle touch.

“It’s pretty deep,” Hamilton says, “I could sew you up, if we fucking had any supplies.”

“I’ve had worse,” Burr says, grimacing, “I’ll just take it easy, it’ll heal right up.”

Still, Hamilton insists on wrapping it, using a piece of Burr’s shirtsleeve. Burr lets him, even though the motion feels futile, and blood stains the fabric almost as soon as it’s put on. Hamilton sends him worried glances all evening until Burr feels raw from them, snaps at him again to stop as he walks off (only limping slightly), even though he can still feel Hamilton’s eyes at his back.

 

***

 

It doesn’t get better. His leg throbs through the night, and by that morning it’s tender to the touch, tender in a way distinct from its immediate hurt. Redness begins to bloom around the wound like a corona. By the next night the wound’s grows foul, weeping out putrid tears. Walking becomes a chore, and then nearly impossible, for any time he moves his calf pain shoots up his leg like daggers. Hamilton no longer lets him leave the cave, and Burr’s no longer entirely sure he could, even if he wanted to.

Burr doesn’t sleep much that night either. His hand keeps creeping down, pressing against the hot skin there, feeling the way pain radiates back up his body. He’s seen similar injuries on the battlefield, and they often didn’t end well. He finally falls asleep, but wakes soon after freezing cold, as if the cave had been filled with ice. Burr is vaguely aware he’s trembling, but mostly he’s just aware of being _cold_. His shaking wakes Hamilton, who, without speaking, wraps his arms around Burr, murmurs something wordless and sweet to him, like a song with the words long forgotten.

 _Thank you_ , Burr tries to say, but the way his teeth are chattering leave the words garbled.

Burr is still cold, that morning, but it’s slightly better. Hamilton brings in a crudely made torch so that they can better examine the wound, and the odd, flickering light cannot hide the dismay that crosses Hamilton’s face as he examines it.

“It’s bad,” Burr says, flat. His vision’s gone blurry, at the edges, but he fights. He stays. He watches Hamilton.

“Well…,” Hamilton says, “well. There’s some dead flesh. I think we have to try to cut some of it off, let the wound breathe some clean air.”

“Fine,” Burr says, though it’s not, but does he have any other choice?

Hamilton leaves, comes back with his knife and a coconut shell full of water that’s filled with a plant that’s been mashed into a pulp, though Burr can spot a few pink flowers. The drink is bitter, and Burr wants to spit it out, but he forces himself to swallow, to drink the whole thing. He feels no different afterwards, or doesn’t think he does.

Hamilton gives him something else – a stick, carved smooth, to bite down on. Burr places it reluctantly between his teeth, feeling like a horse with a bit in its mouth. Hamilton meets his eyes once more, filled with a questions Burr can’t understand, much less answer, then turns his attention to the wound.

Burr shrieks against the wood as the knife cuts in. They’ve kept the knife blade as sharp as they can, honing the edge against rocks, but the knife was never meant for such things as the ones they’ve put it through. It feels like Hamilton has to saw through every inch of skin, and Burr tries to keep still, he does, hands curling into fists at his side. He feels tears in his eyes, feels them rolling down his cheeks, and a foul smell permeates the air as something putrid spills from his wound but Hamilton – god bless him – doesn’t flinch, keeps cutting, and Burr lets these pieces of himself get carved away, inch by wretched inch.

 

***

 

When he wakes, everything’s yellow. Like old bruises. Like the skies in the eye of a hurricane. Burr is in a different kind of hurricane – hot and cold, yes, but mostly pain, pain marching like soldiers up his calf, up his thigh, armies of infection. An infantry. Sometimes he thinks he can see them there, those pain-soldiers, sees them streaming up his body, up to his brain. They all wear the faces of dead men and Burr screams when he sees them.

When he stops screaming, something bitter and earthy is shoved into his mouth, something else that stings like the dickens pressed into his wound. He tries to spit it out, but a hand keeps his mouth closed, and a voice, distant, tells him _chew, please chew._ He tries. For the voice.

He keeps seeing things, though. The soldiers. One of them grows large, larger than Burr, a caricature of a man. Burr knows the man’s face, and it’s no longer a soldier, it’s Bellamy, smiling in that soft, sad way of his. Bellamy reaches out a hand and Burr tries to move, tries to reach for him.

 _My boy_ , says Bellamy, _my boy, you could come with me_.

 _My (almost) only friend_ , Burr wants to say, and he reaches out again, thinking this time he will grab his hand, and they will go (to where? he doesn't know, but it doesn’t seem to matter).

But as he reaches out Bellamy’s face twists, melts, flesh dripping like candlewax, and Burr is screaming again, screaming _Jonathan, no, no, no_.

When he wakes shaking – cold again – there are arms around him, holding him. There are no more faces; no more ghosts come to haunt him for the time being. But there is a hand over his. Fingers together, laced like rope.

 _We’re like knots,_ he thinks, _bound together._

The thought makes him laugh. He doesn’t know why. It’s better than screaming. He doesn’t see the soldiers anymore.

He thinks, _jump._

He wakes minutes, or hours, or days later, wakes _hot_ , skin like fire. There’s a hand in his, and another one pressing on his forehead and that hand is cool, an oasis, and Burr tries to thank the hand – thank the owner of the hand – but when he opens his mouth to speak he only manages a dull, croaking sound.

 

***

 

He wakes to pain, the knife in his leg again. More pieces of him, gone. He’s not lucid, and he can’t see who’s there, who’s cutting into him. Maybe Hamilton. Maybe it’s Bellamy. Maybe Theodosia. It doesn’t matter. They all have pieces of him.  
_Even after my skin is destroyed, from my flesh I shall see God_ , he thinks wildly – tries to say, and maybe he manages something, some sound, because he hears his name, distant –

_Aaron? Aaron, are you there?_

Is he? He tries to move his hand, gropes blindly through the pain, through the dark, through the yellow, but his hands don’t find anything at all.

 

***

 

He dreams, in his fevers. Some of it seems real. He cries, or screams. The world throbs in hot and cold, sometimes both simultaneously, which should be impossible but isn’t, because it happens to him, because, surely, this is what death is like.

A voice comes through, sometimes. Comes through the yellow and the hot and the cold, comes all the way through, like magic. A beacon, calling him, hollering him home.

Begging: _please, Aaron, stay alive_.

Begging: _don’t leave me here alone_.

 _I won’t,_ he tries to say back, but all his words are gone, lost in the yellow, drowned in it the way he should have drowned when they rowed forever through waves as tall as houses.

He can squeeze the hand in his, though. So he does, and hopes it conveys the message. _I won’t. I’m here._

It sounds like someone’s crying. He squeezes again, but the motion’s exhausting, and then the yellow turns darker, darker, darker and then it’s not yellow but black.

 

***

 

Burr wakes with a gasp, covered in sweat. He looks around, disoriented – is he in a _cave_? – and then it comes back to him, where he is. Where _they_ are.

“Alex?” he says, and it comes out a whisper, hoarse and appallingly weak, but it brings the dark shape – Hamilton – to his side.

“Aaron?” the voice is rough in its own way, and disbelief fills the word with fissures, “Aaron, is that you?”

“Who else--” he begins, then has to draw a breath, those few words enough to exhaust him, “would it be?”

Hamilton laughs. A good sound. Burr feels better for hearing it.

A palm is placed on his forehead. It’s cool against the sweat. Burr’s eyes flutter closed for just a moment, savoring the feeling.

“Your fever’s broken,” Hamilton says, and he laughs again, this time with relief, “fuck, Aaron, I thought I was….I thought I was going to lose you.”

He takes Burr’s hand, and their fingers interlace. It should feel strange, but it doesn’t – it feels natural. They hands fit together, seamless as their bodies had.  Burr thinks, without knowing why, _we’re like knots_.

He isn’t sure what it means. But he squeezes Hamilton’s hand, smiles at him. Hamilton smiles back.

 

***

 

The fever comes back, once, though not as bad. Burr is lucid enough to read the stricken fear in Hamilton’s eyes as Hamilton brings him more of those bitter pink flowers, makes him chew. Hamilton sponges Burr’s forehead with a shirt soaked in rainwater, tilting Burr’s head back and shielding his eyes so they won’t get water in them. This strikes Burr as infinitely, terribly tender; it makes his stomach hurt, and he isn’t sure why.

The swelling goes down, eventually, and soon Burr can move his leg, albeit gingerly. It’s still mostly useless, but he knows it’s half a miracle he’s alive at all. In the army, had he taken sick that way they would have likely cut the leg off, and his chances of surviving that particular operation were fairly grim. Instead, there is only a dent in the calf, large enough for him to press two fingertips into (he does so, but only once, and then the pain is blinding). He’s still weak, frustratingly so, and he feels guilty lying about in the cave while Hamilton’s left to gather food and cook for them both. Hamilton doesn’t complain about it, which surprises Burr, considering how often Hamilton complained back when they had split the chores evenly.

Burr soon reaches the frustrating point of illness where he is still too infirm to do anything or be of any use, but well enough to be aware of his uselessness, well enough to be frustrated by it. He begins to feel caged in the small cave, restless, wonders if this is how Hamilton had felt on the ship.

Hamilton tries to entertain him, brings him coconut fibers to braid into rope. At first Burr’s fingers are clumsy and awkward and the work goes by slowly, but eventually he gets better at the braiding, and is finally to make rope that might actually be useable. He makes himself a small length of rope to mimic the one William had given him, the piece now long-lost at sea. It doesn’t feel the same – this rope frays quickly, from both its material and its admittedly shoddy craftsmanship – but it’s enough, and Burr practices knots again, finds them soothing.

Once he gets better at braiding rope from the fibers, he makes Hamilton a bracelet. He remakes it several times, until finally it looks right. He adds a charm - a small shell with a hole in it, one Hamilton had brought when Burr asked (Hamilton had asked why, of course, but Burr had refused to tell him, in part because he wanted it to be a surprise and in part because there was something odd about saying _I’m making you something_ ), The shell is barely larger than Burr’s thumbnail, a polished white with a hint of red coloring, striations. He holds the bracelet up - it’s crudely made, of course, but considering his earlier efforts he thinks it’s really quite good craftsmanship.

Hamilton comes in a bit later, bringing Burr’s supper.

“Thanks,” Burr says, cautiously taking the coconut shell, “I’ve got something for you, too.”

“Oh?”

Burr takes out the bracelet, offers it to Hamilton.

“It’s not much, and you don’t have to wear it, I just -- I wanted to make you something, to thank you for taking care of me lately, and, well, we’re kind of lacking for materials here…” he’s rambling, offering Hamilton an out - he doesn’t want him to feel _obligated_ \- but to his delight Hamilton’s eyes soften, and he smiles.

“No, Aaron, it’s great,” he says, “it’ll help me maintain my profile as the most stylish man on the island. Help me put it on?”

He offers his arm, the underside of the wrist turned up, and Burr fumbles to tie it on. He notices the calluses on Hamilton’s palm, the faint latticework of veins on his wrist, finds these small details oddly transfixing. He finally has to double-knot the bracelet, small and tight, and doubts it’s a knot that can be easily undone.

“Sorry,” he says, fingers rubbing over the knot before he lets go, “you can just cut it off when you don’t want to wear it anymore.”

Hamilton’s fingers run over the bracelet, twirl it around his wrist so that the shell makes a full circle around his wrist. He touches the shell, smiling softly.

“This is nice, Aaron,” he says, and he sounds genuine, “thank you.”

*******

Finally, Burr is deemed well enough to leave their cave, and Hamilton insists on keeping Burr’s arm around his shoulder, supporting him.

“This isn’t necessary, you know,” Burr points out.

“I don’t want to risk you falling. You’ve been off your feet for a while.”

Burr considers protesting more, decides it’s not worth it. So he stands up, gingerly, and lets his arm stay around Hamilton’s shoulders. They emerge from the cave and Burr has to shut his eyes against the overwhelming brightness. The light still sears through his eyelids, strange patterns and starbursts as the brightness seeps desperately through. He opens them again, just a sliver. He’s stopped moving, and though he can’t see it he can _feel_ Hamilton looking at him, the concern radiating from him.

“I’m fine,” Burr says, “it’s just…it’s so damn bright out here.”

But the brightness is good. The brightness is nothing like the sick yellow skies he’d dreamt of in his fevers.

He can finally open his eyes enough to navigate, move slowly through the camp. He’s acutely aware of how damn _grimy_ he is. He wants a bath (or at least what passes for a bath here), wants to cleanse himself of his time spent infirm.

“I’m fine, Alex,” he says again – a broken record - and slides his arm off from Hamilton’s shoulders. Now that’s he’s more lucid, he’s more aware of his actions, that he must keep space, must not let himself fall into this even if Hamilton’s shoulders had felt strong under his arm. Hamilton doesn’t protest, and Burr isn’t sure if he’s gratified by this, or disappointed by it.

“I need to wash off,” he says, “try to feel human again.”

He begins to walk to the pond, and hears Hamilton follow. When Burr turns to look, Hamilton is only a few feet behind him.

“You’re not going alone,” Hamilton says.

“Why not?”

“Why not? Because you almost fucking died, Aaron. I’m not gonna have you pass out and drown. Not after everything.”

“I’m fine,” – third time’s the charm? – “I don’t need to be hovered over.”

“I’m not hovering. I’m just here in case you need help.”

Burr rolls his eyes, but stops protesting. He undresses, carefully, and wades slowly out into the pond. The water’s almost cold, this early in the morning, and his arms and chest break into gooseflesh. He can practically feel the layers of dirt drift off. Burr scrubs his hands over his legs (avoiding the injury, washing around it), his chest, wades out until the water’s at his neck.

He hears a splash, turns, and Hamilton’s wading in, naked, and Burr finds himself staring – perhaps a bit too obviously – before he realizes himself and averts his eyes.

“Alex?”

“You’re too far out. If I need to save you, I have to be nearby.”

Hamilton doesn’t get too close, and Burr is grateful for that. Not that, in his currently weakened state, he’s too concerned about any noticeable physical reaction, but he’d rather not risk it.

Burr is fine – of course he’s fine – and he finishes rinsing the dirt off with no need for saving. He grabs for his clothes and slips his shirt over his head. When he gets to his pants it’s more of a struggle, he can’t raise his leg the way he needs to, and when he tries there’s a starburst of pain and he curses under his breath.

And then Hamilton’s there, one hand on Burr’s back, steadying him. This only serves to emphasize Burr’s helplessness, and it makes him irrationally frustrated.

“I’ve got it,” he snaps, twisting his body away. He knows he’s being irrational, but his frustration, so long simmering from the days spent infirm, now comes to a boil, and Hamilton just happens to be in the path.

Hamilton recoils as if slapped, and for a moment he looks hurt – and then that hurt is replaced by his own frustrations.

“Sorry for fucking helping.”

“I didn’t ask!”

Burr, glaring now, tries to work his way into the pants. It hurts – he really does need help, but he won’t ask, not now – and manages to get them on, though by the time he’s finished his leg is throbbing again and he’s queerly exhausted. He moves back to their camp, and trips – not because he’s weak, but because there’s a fucking rock he didn’t see, and he stumbles, almost falls, pain tearing like knives through his leg, and then Hamilton’s grabbing his good arm, steadying him, and this somehow makes Burr all the more frustrated.

“Aaron, are you--?”

“I’m fine! I’m fucking fine!” he shouts, and, before he even realizes he’s going to do it he shoves Hamilton. Not hard – he’s too weak – really just a palm on the chest and pressure. Hamilton stumbles back a little, more from surprise than anything else. He catches himself, comes forward, grabs Burr’s wrist, stands close and face to face and _oh_ , this, this is dangerous because they are too close, because Burr can see the dark, wide pupils in Hamilton’s brown eyes, he can feel the heat radiating from Hamilton’s body, he can see those slightly half-open lips.

Neither man says anything and there is a moment – only a few seconds, but it sears itself in Burr’s memory, their closeness and the fury and the way Hamilton’s eyes bore into him like bullets – where there is something, an unnamable tension, and Burr feels as if he is teetering on some awful precipice.

He wants to kiss him again, is the ridiculous thing. He’s close enough that it’s even a viable option.

Burr steps back, putting distance between them, and Hamilton lets go of his wrist; although Burr can still feel the electricity between them crackling in the air.

“Shit, Alex, I'm sorry, I didn't mean--” Burr says, the words coming too fast, stumbling over one another. He still isn't quite sure if he wants to apologize, but the more rational part of his mind understands that he cannot cultivate this sort of animosity between them, that he can't act like this, not when this is something that they are in together. He needs Hamilton to survive, and he suspects, on some level, that Hamilton needs him, too.

Something flashes across Hamilton's face, something that looks almost like disappointment, but that makes no sense given the context. Hamilton looks down at his hands.

“I was just trying to help,” he repeats, and at the piteous tone in his voice all the anger drains out of Burr and he feels horrible for his actions.

“I know, Alex,” he says, “I'm just… it's been a hard few days.”

Hamilton scoffs.

“Been a hard few months, more like it,” he says, and his voice is livelier now, no longer that horrible piteous thing that Bur had heard.

“I'm sorry, Alex,” he says, repeating himself, but it is an apology that bears repeating.

“It's okay,” Hamilton says, then adds, “I guess I was being a little overbearing.”

Burr smiles at him. Things feel a little more relaxed now, some of that tension now dissipated with their apologies, and with the new distance between them.

 

***

 

That night, Burr is reluctant to go back into the cave, for it feels and looks more like a prison to him now, rife with memories.

But Hamilton coaxes him in, and when Burr lies down to go to bed, facing the wall, he feels Hamilton scoot close to him, chest to Burr’s back, wrapping an arm around him.

“I missed you,” Hamilton says, “I thought you were going to leave me.”

 _I never went anywhere_ , Burr wants to say, but he realizes the meaning. A part of him _had_ been gone, lost to his fever, gone to a realm where not everyone returns from. A realm where the skies are always yellow.

“I'm right here,” he says to Hamilton. Says to them both. _Right here._

Hamilton's arm tightens around his middle, and he can feel Hamilton's chest flush against his back, feel his breath on the nape of his neck. Hamilton's breathing is a bit erratic, like there’s still words trapped there, and Burr keeps expecting him to say something else. Burr knows he should move, should disengage; that he should not let this closeness and intimacy feel as comfortable – as _right_ – as it does, for he knows he cannot get used to this, that this has merely been brought on by Hamilton's fear of being left alone. It doesn't mean anything else. It can't.

After a full minute, Hamilton shifts, and the word that seem to have been trapped in stasis is finally spoken.

“Aaron--” Hamilton says, his hand moving near Burr’s arm, the fingers touching the back of his hand. He touches it, gingerly, careful to avoid the still healing wound on Burr’s arm. He finally places his hand over Burr's, and though their fingers don't interlace, Hamilton’s hand lays over his, warm, like a blanket.

“I'm glad I'm here with you,” Hamilton says, voice a low whisper, low enough that Burr wonders if he had spoken at all.

“Me too,” says Burr.

They fall asleep like that, Hamilton's hand covering his, Burr’s back to his chest. _It's just one night,_ Burr tells himself. Just one night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY I can't tell you guys how happy the response to this has made me, like, those tumblr messages and comments and just. i love you all so much.
> 
> notes:  
> \- Jonathan Bellamy was a close friend of Aaron Burr's, writing him totally heterosexual letters such as [the ones in this book](http://www.freeinfosociety.com/media/pdf/4328.pdf) (I suggest searching 'rains') with some key quotes being found [here](https://aarronburrs.tumblr.com/post/142777692211/ok-but-exactly-w-h-o-was-jonathan-bellamy-w-h-a)  
> \- [Germ theory](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Germ_theory_of_disease#Pre-19th_century) wasn't a thing until the 1850s or so, and I tried to capture that without just. killing anyone. ~~for once~~.  
>  \- The plant with pink flowers Hamilton gave Burr is a real tropical plant in the Caribbean that reduces fevers/helps with infection, but my Chrome crashed the other day and I lost the tab with its name. But it's real, albeit maybe not as effective as I made it out to be. I'm about plausibility, not reality, okay.  
> \- "Hollering him home" is homage to Lisey's Story by Stephen King (I'm sure he's glad he's being referenced so much in this, you're welcome, favorite author), possibly one of my favorite books in the whole world.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "The time on the island has changed from weeks to months, and though Hamilton still diligently carves notches into the tree, Burr no longer looks at them, no longer counts the days."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I just say I love you guys so much.
> 
> More warnings for canon-typical homophobia and internalized homophobia. Actually, consider that an ongoing warning from hereon out.
> 
> Finally, enjoy an extra long chapter because I could not for the life of me decide how to work this!

Burr recovers more quickly than he has any the right to, but it still feels like it takes forever. Soon, though, he can walk without much pain, and the wound heals over, pink skin covering the wound, shiny and new. Moving too suddenly or too quickly still pains him, but if he is cautious – and Burr is very good at being cautious – he can almost forget he was hurt at all, that he almost died on some nameless island. He resumes his previous vigilance over his own conduct, and Hamilton eases up on him, hovering less, more convinced of Burr’s restored health. And maybe Burr misses it, a little, but that's not something he will admit to. The time on the island has changed from weeks to months, and though Hamilton still diligently carves notches into the tree, Burr no longer looks at them, no longer counts the days.

 

***

 

Hamilton and Burr plant a garden. Burr digs, and makes neat rows, and Hamilton plants seeds that he gathers, tubers, other small green plants that have a slightly bitter taste but that always leave Burr feeling better after he eats them. Neither he nor Hamilton acknowledge the message behind this, the indication that they are preparing for a certain permanence on the island. Burr thinks, cynically, that surely nothing will grow from this, that Hamilton will lose interest and Burr will be left trying to tend to the plants, unable to tell their crop from the weeds, or that something else will go wrong along the way. It surprises him when after only a few days, small, tender green shoots begin to poke out from the neatly laid rows.

Hamilton lavishes the plants with a sort of exuberant affection, carefully watering them, and Burr even hears him speaking to them, one afternoon.

“What are you doing?” asks Burr.

“Talking to them,” says Hamilton. As if Burr was stupid to ask.

“Dare I ask why?”

“It helps them grow, and besides, they're good listeners.”

“Does this mean you’ll talk to me less?”

“Don’t be jealous, Aaron.”

Hamilton looks up from his plants, his tropical garden, and smiles at Burr in a way that makes him feel dizzy. There are more and more moments like that, times where things will feel normal, and then Hamilton will smile at Burr in a certain way that makes his stomach feel sick and excited all at once. It’s the same kind of thrill that had chased through Burr’s veins when he had first met Theodosia.

 

***

 

He and Theodosia had met on a ship, of all things. It had been a short trip down the Hudson, five days, both of them on a return voyage to New York. But it had been long enough for her to show her wit, to catch him with her coy gazes.

He didn’t find out she was married until things had gone far past coy gazes, when he’d joined her and her half-sister Caty on the deck and Caty, though less sharp than his Theodosia, was sharp enough to catch the electricity between them and that’s when she dropped the name - _Jacques_ \- like a stone.

But even with that knowledge, with that name, they hadn’t stopped – or perhaps they couldn’t stop. To Burr, it had felt like a thing set in motion.

(Or perhaps that’s just what he told himself, looking back. That they had been somehow fated. As if that disavowed him from any wrongdoing.)

But god, whenever he looked at her, whenever she’d give him her small half-smile, he’d feel like a whole flock of birds were taking flight in his stomach, like he was filled with beating wings.

By the time they disembark he’s falling in love with her and has no intentions of stopping.

It had continued, from there, in fits and starts; a relationship made more of moments than of anything consistent. Still, the nights they had were ones he cherished.

 

***

 

Midday, Burr sits near the ocean, back against a tree, stripping more coconut fibers so he might braid them into rope. He’s gotten better at the braiding, even made himself a bracelet in mimicry of the one he’d made for Hamilton, though he doesn’t wear it, just keeps it in his pocket, like a talisman. It’s a tedious process, stripping the fibers from the husks, but the repetition is calming, in a way. Burr edges the knife close to the husk and pushes gently, slowly removing the fibers, adding them to his slowly-growing pile.

There’s a rustling noise as Hamilton breaks through the growth beside him, several mangoes in hand. He sits down across from Burr.

“I brought presents,” he says – and they are, for they’d discovered mangoes grew mostly on the far side of the island, a good walk from their camp, “lemme see the knife.”

Burr finishes his last strip of fibers, hands the knife over. Hamilton slices the fruit, hands a piece to Burr. It’s almost overripe, and some of the juice drips down his chin. The fruit is overwhelmingly sweet and Burr closes his eyes for a second, savors it. He opens them to find Hamilton watching, something dark and indiscernible in his gaze.

“Yes?” Burr asks.

“You’ve got --,” Hamilton rubs his cheek to demonstrate, and Burr mirrors him.

“Let me,” Hamilton says, and before Burr can respond Hamilton’s thumb traces over Burr’s upper lip, against his cheek, flicking a piece of mango off. The touch is electrifying in ways it shouldn’t be. Hamilton’s hand is back at his side but he’s still looking at Burr.

“I see now why you were always so clean shaven,” Hamilton says.

“Beg pardon?”

“We’ve been here months now and all you have is a little scruff and that half-assed mustache. You’re a shame to mankind, Aaron.”

Burr laughs. Hamilton’s own goatee has grown into a light beard, which Burr kind of likes on him – it makes him look like a wild thing, suited to the wilderness.  

“Maybe I’ll have a ponytail to match yours by the time we leave,” he says.

Hamilton scoffs.

“You _wish_.”

Hamilton lifts his hand, as if to touch some part of Burr, but then seems to think better of it, drops it back to his side. Burr feels faintly sick with disappoint, and can’t say why. Hamilton instead stands, stretches as if he’d been sitting for hours rather than minutes, and looks to Burr.

“Almost done with the knife? I want to start dinner soon.”

Burr hands it to him, Hamilton’s fingers brushing his as he takes it. Hamilton heads off and Burr tries to braid the fibers he’d stripped, but his mind keeps wandering to Hamilton’s finger tracing his lips, that inscrutable look in his dark eyes.

 

***

 

“What do you miss most?” Hamilton asks one night as they sit near the fire, cooking supper. Cooking’s easier; now, they’ve been able to chip out crude bowls to cook in, resulting in food that’s somewhat more evenly cooked.

Burr considers. He misses Theodosia, of course, but the name sits like lead on his tongue, like he doesn't want to mention her to Hamilton.

“I miss beds,” he says, because that seems safe -- until he has the image of being together with Hamilton in a bed, bodies sinking into the mattress, but it’s spoken, too late to take back.

Something passes over Hamilton’s face, brief as a shadow in the firelight.

“You?” Burr asks, hurrying to shift the focus away from him.

“Writing,” Hamilton says, not hesitating, “I miss writing so fucking much. At night, I lay there, I think about all these things Washington could do - things _we_ could do - to change the nation, to truly make us great. And most of these ideas I can remember, but sometimes, I wake up, and all I have is the memory that I had a great idea, you know? I’m scared that without a way to record them, I’m going to lose them.”

“Tell them to me, then,” Burr says, “and maybe between the two of us, we’ll remember. And when we get off this island, we’ll write them down.”

Hamilton looks at Burr from across the fire and the intensity in his eyes is too much. Burr looks away.

“Really?” Hamilton’s voice is more cautious, now, “and you’ll listen.”

“I’ll even improve on them,” Burr replies, drily.

Hamilton laughs.

“Well, my first idea is how we’re going to structure the nation’s debt ---”

 

***

 

They talk well into the night. And for all they’ve been through - the shipwreck, the kiss, Burr almost dying in Hamilton’s arms, the near-kiss (near _something_ ) at the riverside - this feels like old times, and Burr wishes for a beer in his hands.

Hamilton’s ideas are good. Better than good, really, they’re _great_ ; underlined with a sort of beautiful, maddening logic Burr hadn’t believed Hamilton possessed. So he listens, and offers advice where he sees fit, and to his surprise Hamilton actually considers his recommendations, nods. Burr can feel the energy radiating off of Hamilton, its own kind of heat amidst the embers.

When they head to bed Hamilton is still energetic, still wants to talk - a dam, broken - but Burr is tired, and Hamilton finally senses it. He feels Hamilton scoot closer, feels breath on his neck and that causes goosebumps, causes Burr to tense and focus on his breathing, focus on something that’s not how close Hamilton’s mouth must be.

“Thanks, Aaron,” Hamilton says.

“For what?”

“Listening. I know I talk a lot anyway, but getting to...getting to be like that, with a mind like yours...shit, Aaron, it’s good.”

“Your ideas are good, Alex. I can’t wait to see them play out.”

“Promise?”

There’s something in Hamilton’s voice - hesitation? insecurity? - that Burr is not used to.

“Promise.”

Burr makes the promise like it’s something he has control over. But it seems to be what Hamilton needs to hear, because Hamilton shifts and that hot breath is no longer at his neck, though he can still feel the heat from Hamilton’s body, knows he’s close. Burr wants to turn over, promise Hamilton other things, too, but instead he counts his breaths until finally, finally he falls asleep.

 

***

 

One night, Burr returns from fishing at the beach (he’s gotten more adept with the spear - not great, but passable) to find Hamilton sitting at the fire with a smile that’s wide and a little manic, a smile that thrills and frightens Burr.

“I’ve got a surprise,” says Hamilton, and Burr’s interest is piqued - after so long spent on the island with Hamilton, he wonders what Hamilton could possibly have to surprise him with.

(His mind, a traitorous thing, offers up several options that make the blood rise in Burr’s cheeks.)

“What is it?”

“Guess.”

Burr rolls his eyes.

“A ship.”

Hamilton favors him with a withering glare.

“A coconut.”

“Guess harder.”

“A roasted pig.”

Hamilton, impatient, thankfully ends the game. Instead of provoking Burr for further guesses, he pulls out several coconut-husk vessels of a dark and sinister looking liquid that he’d hidden behind his seat near the fire.

“I’ve made us wine! Well, sort of. Tastes like shit, of course, but considering the materials at hand, I’m rather proud.”

“Wine?” Burr repeats. How on earth did Hamilton make _wine_ , of all things?

“Found a place not far off, managed to ferment some fruit and wild yeasts. People on the island made it for festivals where everyone wanted to get drunk cheap. I started it a while ago, didn’t want to say anything in case it didn’t work. This stuff is way worse, but beggars can’t be choosers.”

Hamilton giggles, and now that Burr’s closer he can see a certain slackness about him. He must have already been drinking. He sits down next to Hamilton, who hands him a coconut shell, then lifts his own.

“Cheers,” he says, tapping his drink lightly to Burr’s, and once again Burr is transported back to the bar.

“Cheers.”

The so-called wine is absolutely disgusting, but Burr throws it to the back of his throat and swallows without tasting much. It doesn’t take long before his head begins to feel light, and looseness overcomes his limbs. The stuff is certainly potent enough, and Burr is thinner now without much in his stomach, and hasn’t had a drink in months besides.

Soon enough they are both flat-out drunk, slumped against one another by the fire, and some far-off part of Burr’s mind tells him to pull away, but the voice is so distant he finds he can ignore it in favor of the solidity and warmth of Hamilton’s side pressed into his. Besides, Hamilton isn’t moving, so why should he?

Hamilton’s head lolls against Burr’s shoulder, fits there in a way that’s too easy, too _right_ , and Burr has to resist the urge to run his fingers up Hamilton’s spine, tangle them in his hair. Suddenly Hamilton’s head lifts and he twists to look at Burr, his eyes too-wide, expression serious – but serious in the way of a drunkard trying to make himself appear sober.

“I have the best idea,” Hamilton says, and, as if this would further support his idea, he places a hand on Burr’s shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Let’s go…swimming!”

Hamilton bursts out laughing, and Burr laughs too, laughs as much at Hamilton’s own drunken glee as he does at the idea. And it does seem like a good idea. Burr’s hand lifts – of its own accord, he thinks – and covers Hamilton’s hand on his shoulder.

“Yes,” he says, adamant – swimming would be a _great_ idea.

They move down the path – now well-worn from a hundred trips of theirs, from camp to sea and back again. The ocean looks gorgeous in the moonlight, dark and shimmering, the moon reflected in a quavering break of silver on the waves.

They undress, and Hamilton actually _runs_ out to the waves, although in his current state the run is more of a shamble. Burr follows him into the water. They wade out about waist high, laughing, when Hamilton pivots suddenly, arm set against the water, splashing Burr, who reacts a moment too late. Burr yelps a little in surprise, and then sends his own wave back, like they’re children. The game continues until Hamilton escalates, moves forward and grabs Burr’s arm, tries to yank him off balance to dunk him. But drunk Hamilton moves with considerably less grace than sober Hamilton, and Burr anticipates the movement, jerks his arm back and steps away from Hamilton’s flailing hand. Hamilton, unaffected, instead drops down, stumbling, and for a moment Burr’s breath catches because Hamilton is close to him now after that thwarted grab, close and  seemingly going to his knees before Burr --

Then Hamilton bursts up, both hands splashing now, laughing uncontrollably. Burr, without thinking, grabs Hamilton’s wrists – to stop the splashing, no other reason, _none_ – and they’re close again, just as they’d been when they’d fought, and it’s dangerous. He can feel the bracelet he made Hamilton against his palm, rough, scraping there.

Hamilton doesn’t say anything, but he meets Burr’s eyes and his pupils are blown wide and Burr thinks _he wants this, I want this_. His grip tightens on Hamilton’s wrists and at that motion Hamilton licks his lips, and _oh_ , this is dangerous again, this is a line crossed –

And that’s when a wave, large and disquiet against the placidity of the ocean, crashes down against them, not over their heads, but shoulder-height, enough to splash their faces. Burr lets go, cuts his arms through the water to keep his balance, and the moment is gone again, and he can’t believe he almost did that, almost tried to kiss Hamilton again.

Burr feels all too sober as they wade back to shore; make their way back to camp.

 

***

 

Burr is out on the beach one day when he looks up and sees a ship, far off in the distance. He starts screaming, waving his arms. He knows it’s hopeless – it’s broad daylight, and the ship itself is practically a speck in Burr’s eye, a brown smudge on the horizon, but he can’t help himself. He screams, and screams.

“HERE, OVER HERE! HELP!”

Hamilton bursts out onto the beach, eyes wild and frantic.

“Aaron? Aaron, are you okay?”

Burr grabs his arm, points to the brown dot receding into the distance.

“It’s a fucking ship!”

Hamilton begins yelling too, adds his voice to the chorus. They chase the boat down the beach, shouting for it. Burr pleads quietly for it to turn, but eventually the brown dot disappears completely from view, swallowed by the sunlight. Burr falls to his knees in the sand, much as he had when he'd first discovered they were on an island; walloped by the sudden grief and hopelessness. The ship had been their _chance_.

Hamilton goes to his knees beside Burr, wraps an arm around his shoulders. It’s the first time they’ve really touched since that drunken moment in the ocean.

“Hurricane season is tapering off,” Hamilton says, “trade will increase. There will be more ships. Closer ones. I’m sure of it.”

He doesn’t sound sure, but Burr chooses to believe him.

“Now,” Hamilton says, “you need to apologize for scaring the ever-loving _shit_ out of me with that screaming. We’ve had enough near-death experiences here, thanks.”

“Sorry,” Burr says. He realizes that, had he been the one at camp, had he heard Hamilton start screaming with no context, he would have been stricken with fear, too.

“Next time just yell ‘SHIP,’ okay?”

“Okay.”

The word _next time_ fills Burr with a sort of hazy, desperate hope; a pathetic and determined thing.

 _Next time_.

 

***

 

Hamilton hadn’t seemed as bothered by the missed opportunity for rescue as Burr had, however, that night when Hamilton slips into the cave – late, more than an hour after Burr had gone to bed – he reeks of rancid fruit, and Burr realizes Hamilton had stayed up drinking.

“You scared me today,” Hamilton says, and he’s near Burr, close behind him.

“I said I was sorry.”

“You won’t leave me here alone.”

It sounds part question, part statement.

“Never.”

“Good.”

Hamilton wraps his arm around Burr’s waist again, and for a moment there’s silence, then –

“Question or command?” Hamilton asks, laughing – Burr can feel his body shake against his back.

Burr groans.

“I’m not playing, Alex.”

“Come on. Question or command?”

“I didn’t like the last game,” Burr says. _Didn’t like how you left_ , he means.   

“We’ll make this one better. Question or command?”

Burr sighs.

“Question.”

If he’s going to play, he’ll play careful.

“Who’s Jonathan?”

Burr stiffens, rolls halfway over to look at Hamilton. Hamilton’s propped up on the arm that isn’t around Burr, watching him. Burr props up on to his own arm (looking up at Hamilton from such a prone position is too dizzying).

“Where did you hear that name?”

“It’s not my turn yet. Who’s Jonathan?”

“Jonathan was a…friend,” Burr says, then, “he died.”

Hamilton’s face softens.

“Shit, I’m sorry.”

“Where did you hear that name?”

“I didn’t choose quest--” Hamilton begins, but Burr fixes him with a look, and Hamilton amends his answer, “you say it sometimes, in your sleep. Not often. You say some other names, too, but that one I didn’t recognize. And you said it when you were...when you were ill. Screamed it, actually.”

Burr feels stricken – he’d never been a sleep-talker before (to his knowledge, at least), and here was Hamilton, saying Burr cries out names in his sleep? He wonders who else he’s named. Wonders if he’s said Hamilton’s name, too. He’s sure he has. He’s had enough dreams about Hamilton, since they’ve come to the island. The thought of Hamilton watching him sleep, listening and taking note of Burr’s sleep confessions makes him nervous, worried that, asleep, he may confess to things his waking self keeps under lock and key.

“Question or command?” Hamilton asks, again.

“Question.”

“Did you love him? Jonathan?”

Burr remembers that fluttery feeling in his stomach, like birds taking flight; remembers tracing his fingers over those words in Bellamy’s letter – _it rains, my boy_ and _I can hardly tell you what sensations I did not feel at the time._ Of course there had been nothing between them (just Bellamy’s hand on his cheek, odd, but just a hand, just--), nothing of the _sort_.

He’s hesitated too long.

“He was my friend,” he says, and maybe he’s imagining it, but the words ring hollow.

_It rains, my boy._

Hamilton looks like he wants to ask more, but Burr cuts him off.

“Question or command?” Burr asks.

“Question.”

“Why are you asking about Jonathan?”

Hamilton looks surprised, like he had anticipated a different question.

“Because he’s your…friend,” Hamilton says, “and you care enough about him to cry his name in your sleep and your sickness. Question or command?”

“Command,” Burr says, wanting to distract from the talk of Bellamy.

Hamilton grins, his expression sloppy.

“Command you to kiss me,” Hamilton says, and though the words are made soft and mushy by drink, Burr hears them all too clear.

“Alex,” he says, and draws away.

“Come on,” Hamilton says, shifting so he can stay close to Burr, the arm tightening on his back.

Burr means to push him away, say _stop joking, Alex_ , but what he says instead is: “not when you’re drunk like this.”

Hamilton stops moving, looks at Burr with unsettling intensity.

“When I’m sober, then?” he asks.

“If you ask again.”

“Deal,” Hamilton says, and leans forward, and Burr thinks that Hamilton is going to kiss him. And he does – lips on his cheek, sloppy, a drunk man’s kiss that still leaves Burr buzzing.

 _When I’m sober,_ Hamilton had said, but Burr wonders how much of this Hamilton will remember, or will admit to remembering.

 

***

 

Burr wakes to a hand on his shoulder – not shaking, but tracing, the touch light. He opens his eyes, slowly, sees Hamilton there, watching him. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his face is drawn in a way that makes Burr fret, but the eyes themselves are large and soft, focused on Burr.

“I’m sober, now,” Hamilton says, and for a moment Burr only blinks at him, trying to figure out the logic of Hamilton’s statement, and then it all comes rushing back – Hamilton, drunk, wrapped around Burr, asking questions about Bellamy, a command refused.

“Are you asking?” Burr says.

“Commanding,” Hamilton grins, and his fingers move from Burr’s shoulder down his arm, down to his ribs, the touch still so light, almost ticklish. The air has that same weighty, electric tension that he’s felt before, when he stands too close to Hamilton, standing on either side of some line neither crosses.

But there is nothing to discharge the electricity this time, no waves to disrupt the moment, and Burr is drawn – compelled – closer, and this isn’t like the first time, the joke, he leans forward and kisses Hamilton like he’d kissed Theodosia back on the ship and all the times after, bringing a hand to the back of his neck, drawing him in. Hamilton stiffens for a moment and Burr thinks _no, no, no_ , thinks he’d somehow misread it, but before he can act Hamilton softens in his grasp, kisses him back. Hamilton rolls from his side to his back and Burr chases the motion, chases his mouth. Hamilton’s mouth is open beneath his and he feels the slip of tongue in his mouth. Hamilton’s hand moves from Burr’s ribs to his hip, the touch no longer light but _gripping_ , strong and possessive, drawing him in and keeping him there.

Rational thought has fled from Burr’s mind; he’s drunk on the kissing, the touch, the way Hamilton’s skin feels beneath his fingertips.

Burr’s hand moves down, traces across Hamilton’s ribs, his stomach, and goes to rest on Hamilton’s hipbone. As his moves his hand his forearm brushes against a bulge in Hamilton’s pants, and that causes Hamilton to moan, the noise reverberating in Burr’s mouth, a sound that goes straight to his own groin.

A primal part of him wants desperately to strip Hamilton, to take him (however a man might take another man – Burr has a few ideas), to chase this feeling into whatever it may bring. He’s already half out of his mind with want, made greedy by his first tastes of Hamilton, but he knows – he _knows_ – it can’t be like this, because he can’t scare Hamilton, he can’t have them do this and then have to deal with the divide. As much as his body cries out with impulse, Burr draws back. The action of withdrawal causes a physical ache in him – in his groin, of course, but in other places too, his stomach feels hollow, his chest cold, every inch of him wanting – _needing_ – to slot against Hamilton, to fit into him like pieces of a puzzle.

“Alex,” Burr says, and his voice is cracked. Hamilton looks dreadfully fearful and that makes Burr ache too, in a different way.

“Yes?”

Hamilton’s voice is small, and full of questions.

Burr licks his lips, nervous. There’s no rainwater to taste, this time.

“I’m not...” Burr can’t say the word. _Sodomite_. He’s _not_. Sodomites are filthy, vile men, the kind who’d copulate with goats as soon as they would with women, men who deserve prison, hard labor, death. And while Burr is not a particularly holy man, he’s certainly not so vile.

So why does he want this, why does Hamilton’s mouth feel so right against his, why does Burr want nothing more than to kiss Hamilton again, want to touch him, make him moan again?

Of course, it’s been months since Burr’s been around anyone _but_ Hamilton, and even release by his own hand has been scarce (partially because exhaustion and low food intake tamps down the libido, but also because of the images that come to mind when Burr does touch himself). So maybe it’s just the fact it’s been so long, and Hamilton’s the only one around, so of course Burr’s lusts might manifest in…unusual ways.

(And the fact he wants to kiss him, the fact Hamilton makes him laugh, the fact Hamilton’s mind is a thing as brilliant as the sun – _well_. These things go unmentioned.)

“I’m not a sodomite,” he says. The word still feels strange in his mouth, greasy, “I mean, I’ve never...”

“No, me neither,” Hamilton agrees quickly – too quickly, maybe, “I just…I’m used to being around you.”

The explanation is thin, makes no real sense, but Burr nods eagerly.

“Yes, and we’re the only ones here, so this is…it’s a manifestation of that.”

“A matter of convenience,” Hamilton says, and though Burr supposes it’s true – must be true, because he’s no sodomite, and neither is Hamilton, surely – the way he says it makes Burr’s stomach turn.

“Yes,” he says, but it’s not right, but he can’t explain that – not without digging his own grave, laying bare his own odd desires.

Much better to call this what it is (what it must be): a matter of proximity. _Convenience_ (why does that sound so ugly, so wrong?).

“Is this okay?” he asks Hamilton, and lays his hand on Hamilton’s hip again. He resists the urge to grip, to dug his fingers into the skin, resists the urge to smother any response Hamilton may have with kisses.

Hamilton takes a deep breath, and his eyes flutter closed, as if considering, and Burr tries to ignore the anxious thud of his own heart. Hamilton’s eyes open, and there’s something in them that wasn’t there before – something like determination, steely – and rather than speak, his hand wraps around the back of Burr’s neck, pulls him in. Kisses him, deep.

It’s answer enough.

***

 

Burr doesn’t know what to do with his hands. He trails them up and down Hamilton’s side, cups his cheek, grabs a fistful of Hamilton’s hair (dark, knotted, his fist disappearing in it). Hamilton arches at that, moans, and Burr can see him straining through his pants. The hand not buried in Hamilton’s hair moves cautiously over him, fingers near Hamilton’s cock but not touching it even though he _wants_ to, but suddenly he’s unsure of himself. Hamilton’s breaths are coming faster, and his hips jerk up at Burr’s slight touches, so finally Burr places a palm over Hamilton’s groin. Feeling a cock from this angle is strange, and Burr feels another hot flush of guilt, the awful aching weight of sin. He should pull away, end this before he damns himself – damns them both – but god, Hamilton’s mouth feels like a blessing.

(It’s not that Burr’s a particularly religious man – once he’d been, held in the thrall of his grandfather, once he’d considered a religious path. But the battlefield has a way of changing things. There, he saw men – good men – die senselessly, bullets tearing through them, and his religion dripped out of him like water from a leaky bucket.)

Hamilton lifts his hips and pushes his pants down, doing the work for Burr, and there’s his cock, hard and leaking a little against his stomach. Burr looks at it with some astonishment – he’s seen Hamilton naked, of course, but never hard like this, and he’s never _studied_ him. Hamilton’s cock is long, longer than Burr’s own, but more slim. Burr ghosts his fingers over the underside, and even that slight touch makes Hamilton curse, makes his hips stutter upward, chasing Burr’s touch. Burr makes a loose fist around the head of Hamilton’s cock, fingers dragging through the slit at the tip, leaving his fingers wet with precum. It’s not enough to make for easy movement, so Burr withdraws his hand, licks it and returns it to Hamilton. This is much more suited, and Hamilton lays out all sorts of magnificent curses as Burr’s hand moves on him, dragging down the length, thumb playing on the underside of the head. The angle’s still strange, and Burr’s actions lack any real rhythm, but this doesn’t seem to matter.

“Fuck Aaron, _fuck_ , that’s it, god, fuck,” Hamilton grows incoherent and Burr’s hand doesn’t stop, he tightens his grip, and then Hamilton is spilling out over his stomach, over Burr’s hand, crying out in a sound that fills the cave.

Burr withdraws his come-covered hand, shifts to remove his own pants, uncomfortably aware now of his own erection. His hands get no further than his waistband when Hamilton’s hands cover his, slide the pants off for him.

Hamilton stays there between his thighs, runs his hands along them, and just that simple motion makes Burr moan. He feels wild with want, with need, and those simple light touches on his thighs – oh, his hips now – aren’t enough but they’re also too much, because he’s dizzy with this wanting, dizzy with the knowledge that Hamilton’s between his legs, and _oh_ \--

Hamilton’s mouth is on him. Burr watches in disbelief for a moment, at the way Hamilton’s lips are pulled into an O-shape as they stretch around his cock. His eyes are closed, and he looks contented. His head is still, but Burr can feel his tongue swirling over the head of his cock in a kind of brilliance, the point of Hamilton’s tongue tracing along the ridges. And then Hamilton’s head moves, covers more of Burr’s cock in that delightful wet warmth, the slight pull of suction, and Burr has to look away because it’s too much.

It’s not much better with his eyes closed, because in the self-imposed darkness his mind instead focuses insanely on the sensations, on the strokes of Hamilton’s tongue, the wet firmness of the roof of his mouth. One of Hamilton’s hands wraps around Burr’s shaft, covers what his mouth can’t, the palm made slick with spit that leaks from Hamilton’s cock-split lips. Hamilton moves in a rhythm that’s far more established than Burr would have thought, a flood of heat and friction, and Burr tries to wait, tries to make this last as long as possible, but soon he’s on the edge and he grabs Hamilton’s shoulder.

“Alex, fuck, I’m gonna come,” he manages, though the last bit of his sentence is slurred as Hamilton’s tongue drags along him again. Hamilton’s rhythm doesn’t change and Burr wonders if he’d heard him, but then it doesn’t matter because his orgasm overtakes him, a wave that starts in his toes and travels upward, unrelenting, and he spills into Hamilton’s mouth and Hamilton’s _swallowing_ , which makes Burr moan again.

Hamilton's mouth draws off of Burr’s cock with a slick popping noise, and he rolls onto his side beside him. Burr lays there in silence, shoulder against Hamilton, still struck dumb by the earlier sensations of Hamilton's mouth and tongue, by what had just happened, and part of him is still trying to realize it as truth. As he lies there, though, another wave of guilt rises up, filling the spaces previously occupied by his overwhelming lust.

In the church, the one where Burr’s grandfather had ruled with an iron fist and a devotion so deep-set it bordered on mania, there had been a man, a member of the church, who had been tried and found guilty of sodomy. Burr had never known who the other party was, had not entirely grasped the situation, having only been eight or so years old,  but he remembers well enough how his grandfather had paced the living room floor, had raved to no one in particular, his words spat out with disgust: _sinner, sodomite_. Those spat-out words had seared themselves into Burr’s childhood mind. Later, when they were alone, Burr had asked his grandmother the meaning of the word -- _sodomite_. It had sounded strange to Burr, almost mythical, though judging by the disgust with which his grandfather had spat the word, it was likely something wicked. She had not met his eyes, had insisted that he didn't need to know, that he didn't need to worry about it. All she would say is _it's someone who does ugly, vile, things_.

That man – the one at the church – had not been put to death, as was law in some states, but had instead been sentenced to ten years of hard labor. Burr had not thought of him in years and wonders if he had made it out, or if he had died in there, a broken man, made to pay for his sins.

 _Ugly, vile, things_ , his grandmother had called them; his grandfather had likely said much worse when Burr was not around him. But nothing about what he and Hamilton had just done felt ugly, or vile, had instead felt imbued with a sense of _rightness_ , like a thing he had been waiting his whole life for without ever consciously knowing it.

Hamilton’s eyes are closed and Burr doesn't know if he's sleeping. Burr shifts, just slightly, and Hamilton's eyes come open, his gaze fixed on Burr. There's a small, tentative smile on his face.

“You okay?” asks Hamilton.

“I'm fine,” Burr says. And he is. He is.

 

***

 

The rest of the day continues as normal, so normal that a wild part of Burr is half-convinced it’s a dream, that’s he’s still sick in the cave and hallucinating things again, hallucinating the way Hamilton’s body had felt beneath him. When it comes time for bed, though, the air once more carries that strange tension, neither one crossing some invisible line even though it had been crossed before.

And it’s horrible, because even though it had just been this morning Burr finds himself wanting again, wanting to touch Hamilton again, wanting to feel his mouth on him again. He wonders if he could find the nerve to take Hamilton into his mouth as Hamilton had done for him. He expects to be repelled at the thought, but instead his groin feels hot, imagining the sounds such an action might elicit from Hamilton.

Burr lies down, but doesn’t roll and face the wall, as he’d been used to doing. Because now it doesn’t matter if their bodies touch - does it? - because that divide is crossed, gone. Hamilton says nothing of this, but lays down facing him, looking at Burr. There’s a smirk on his face, something self-satisfied that Burr doesn't know if he loves or hates.

“Do I have to command you, or…?” Hamilton says, voice playful, and it reassures Burr that no, the morning had not been a dream, had not been some latent fever-vision, but had in fact been real.

Burr responds by putting his arm around Hamilton’s waist, pulling their bodies together. He kisses him, tentative at first, but at Hamilton’s eager return Burr intensifies it, slips his tongue into Hamilton’s mouth. He rolls his hips, grinds his hardening cock against Hamilton and he feels Hamilton moan into his mouth, a throaty noise that only makes Burr harder. He shifts slightly, moves his hips again and _ah_ , Hamilton’s hard too. Burr pauses to divest himself of his pants - wonders if he should just start sleeping without them - and hurries to remove Hamilton’s as well. Hamilton laughs, a lazy sound, bringing his hips up to help Burr.

“Eager, aren’t we?”

Burr’s flushes, glad for the dark. _Eager_ doesn’t begin to describe it. This is a _need_ , heady and overwhelming.

He doesn’t answer, instead places a spit-slicked palm on Hamilton’s cock, which certainly does the job of distracting him. Burr strokes him lazily, fingers tracing along a vein standing out on his shaft. Hamilton's groaning and cursing, a low frustration at Burr’s lazy pace, but this doesn’t bother him.

Burr finds, in the dark, it’s all too easy to move down until he’s settled between Hamilton’s thighs. Hamilton goes queerly still as Burr lowers his head, hand still on Hamilton’s cock. It’s an odd mix of newness and familiarity - Burr had loved this position with women, on his stomach between their thighs, fingers and tongue working in tandem. Slowly, he licks at the tip of Hamilton’s cock the way he might a woman’s clit, and Hamilton groans at that. Burr continues, staying at the head, tracing ridges with the firm tip of his tongue. He begins to move his hand, too, sliding up and down Hamilton’s shaft. He eventually finds a sort of clunky rhythm, takes more of Hamilton’s cock into his mouth. It’s a strange sensation, having his mouth filled like this, tasting the faint saltiness of his precum, but it’s not unpleasant (and the fact Burr is still hard despite going untouched suggests he likes it more than he will admit). Once he begins to move faster Hamilton’s words begin to discombobulate, until there’s only _fuck_ and _Aaron_ and _fuck_ again, the wordsmith coming apart before him, and Burr revels in this and when Hamilton comes Burr swallows, and the come burns faintly in his throat, like seawater.

Burr moves back up Hamilton’s body, kisses him again and Hamilton licks the last traces of come from Burr’s mouth. Hamilton’s loose-limbed and smiling and Burr feels a certain pride in knowing he’s the reason for Hamilton’s slackness. Hamilton shifts so Burr’s on his back, now, and Hamilton’s mouth sucks at Burr’s neck, teeth grazing his collarbone. Hamilton’s mouth travels back up Burr’s neck until his lips are by his ear.

“I’m gonna make you come so fucking hard,” Hamilton whispers, breath hot, and Burr only manages a little moan in reply, already being made stupid by Hamilton’s hand, which has crept down and taken Burr’s cock in hand, stroking lazily. Hamilton moves again, mouth and tongue trailing down Burr’s body. Hamilton moves between Burr’s legs but still mostly ignores his cock, instead mouthing at his thighs, a light trail of teeth that sets Burr on edge. He’s ready to start begging (it’s easier, in the dark, to beg) when Hamilton finally licks a wet stripe up the underside of Burr’s cock, tongue swirling around the head. And then, _finally_ , Hamilton takes him into his mouth, and all Burr’s sensations spiral down into that feeling, the slick roughness of Hamilton’s fingers on his shaft, mouth and tongue wet and soft on his cock. Hamilton moves his head, takes more of Burr into his mouth, what feels like an entirely impossible amount, until Burr can feel the head of his cock pressing into the back of Hamilton’s throat. Burr expects him to start choking but instead Hamilton hums, and the reverberations thrum across the thin skin of his cock and it’s exquisite, this feeling. Burr tries to last, tries to prolong every sensation of Hamilton’s mouth and tongue and throat, that _hum_ (Hamilton trying to talk, no doubt), but too soon he’s coming, and crying out Hamilton’s name, fingers dug into his hair.

Hamilton kisses him, after, and that is perhaps the strangest of all because they are both sated, but Burr still finds himself wanting to kiss him, wanting to touch him. Not with the same urgency of before, of course, but he still craves the taste of his mouth, still wants to skim his fingers along Hamilton’s side. They keep kissing, and Burr thinks he could have done it all night except Hamilton pulls away.

“We gotta sleep, Aaron,” he says, and his voice sounds thick, a little raw, and Burr wonders if he made it that way.

“Goodnight, Alex,” Burr says, and kisses him once more. Just once more. Because it feels natural. Feels easy. He doesn’t even think about how natural, how easy, until he’s lying there, trying to sleep, trying to ignore the giddy feeling in his stomach, the one that feels like a hundred birds taking wing.

 

***

 

At first they stick to the cave, where it’s darker, where neither one can fully see the other. But one day Hamilton is bathing, and watching Hamilton’s hands move over his own body ignites something in Burr, so he undresses himself and wades out, comes up behind Hamilton and wraps his arms around him. Hamilton turns, water dripping down his face, and Burr kisses him. Hamilton seems taken aback at first, to be kissed so boldly in the daylight, but he kisses Burr back readily enough, and does not protest when Burr guides him to the shore.

Burr sucks him off there with the sun beating down on his back. He keeps his eyes open to watch Hamilton, his features in stark relief in the daylight. Hamilton’s eyes are closed and his head is thrown back, and Burr thinks _he’s beautiful, like this_.

It goes on in that way. They don’t talk about it again, not since that morning, when they’d agreed - _a matter of convenience_ \- instead let it happen. But an intimacy grows elsewhere, too -- Burr finds himself touching Hamilton in other moments, brushing hair from his face while they’re working, or finding small moments to kiss him with no ulterior motive. Hamilton allows these moments, and does not discourage Burr (sometimes even seems to encourage him). The truth is, it feels like a relationship, like what he’d had with Theodosia. In some ways it’s even better, because - and the irony of this does not escape him - there is no need for secrecy when they are the only two human souls to inhabit the island.

 

***

 

Another storm comes, and they are once more constrained to their cave. This time, though, there’s no need for games to pass the time. Burr has Hamilton on his back, straddling him with his arms pinned overhead, sucking bruises into Hamilton’s collarbone. He moves down, releasing Hamilton’s arms to put his hands to better use, one sliding along Hamilton’s shaft and the other ghosting fingertips along his thighs. He moves down, takes Hamilton into his mouth, tightens his grip and moves in earnest as Hamilton’s freed hands scrabble over his back, hips stuttering upwards. Hamilton pulls Burr off of him, pulls him up into a kiss, a demand Burr obliges, though he keeps his hand moving on Hamilton.

“Fuck, like that, stay with me, _fuck_ ,” Hamilton comes with a groan that Burr feels in his own mouth, leaving their stomachs sticky with his spend. Burr shifts and moves off of him. Hamilton’s hand wanders over, strokes Burr lazily, and even those casual touches have Burr moaning. But rather than intensify his actions, Hamilton shifts, scrapes come off his stomach with the edge of his spit-slick hand, moves it between his own thighs. On his side now, he moves back against Burr, who is unsure what to do, other than admire this view of Hamilton, the dip of his back into his ass.

Laughing softly, Hamilton reaches back, guides Burr – _oh_ – into the space between his thighs, a space slick with spit and come. Burr groans, forehead pressing into Hamilton shoulder, hand grabbing his arm, then his hip, fucking into his thighs, and god, it’s almost like he’s fucking Hamilton, he’s _close_ , and it’s not something he’d ever consciously imagined himself wanting, but as he watches his hips thrust flush against the swell of Hamilton’s ass he’s something like awestruck.

Burr’s close, edged, but the angle – on their sides, like spoons – isn’t quite enough, he pushes tentatively at Hamilton’s hip and Hamilton obliges, rolls onto his stomach, and _god,_ it’s tighter like this, and Hamilton’s moaning, one hand reaching back to grab Burr’s thigh in encouragement, and it’s all the encouragement he needs, he comes crying Hamilton’s name and collapses over his back, kissing his neck, tasting salt and a hint of sweat.

“You’re a mess,” he tells Hamilton, affectionate, and Hamilton laughs.

“We’re both messes,” Hamilton replies, wrapping a slick leg around Burr’s waist and pulling him in, locking him there as the rain pounds overhead, and Burr thinks he's never been so happy in his life.

 

***

 

Burr is tending camp in the early evening, pulling weeds from Hamilton’s garden (which has grown quite prolific, Hamilton even expects to harvest some of the arrowroot soon), when he hears Hamilton’s shout.

“SHIP!”

Burr shoots to his feet, ignoring the stab of pain in his calf (mostly healed, but still tender, still _off_ ) and takes off running. He gets to the beach in record time, and sees Hamilton, arms waving. He looks out, and the ship is _close_ , much closer than the last one had been, he can make out more details – the sails, a dark flag flying (he doesn’t know the country, doesn’t care).

Burr shouts, and Hamilton runs back to the camp (Burr doesn’t question this, focusing his attention on shouting, screaming, trying desperately to draw the ship’s attention). Hamilton returns, panting, holding two torches. It’s not completely dark yet, but evening quickly encroaches, and they wave the fire into the night, chasing the ship down the beach, screaming themselves hoarse. Burr says every prayer he knows and a few he makes up besides.

_Please._

The ship turns, and begins to head towards them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Consider this the end of Act I, and there is absolutely more adventure planned. Might be a bit slower in posting (tons of real life, real work crap), but it'll come!
> 
> As always, comments are cherished with my whole heart.
> 
> Read a brief drunk!Alex POV [here](http://thinksideways.tumblr.com/post/171531806671/another-pov-prompt-if-youre-up-to-it-i-wasnt)
> 
> notes:  
> \- [Burr and Theodosia really did meet on a ship](http://www.historiaobscura.com/the-courtship-of-theodosia-bartow-prevost-and-aaron-burr/)  
> \- Shoutout to a tumblr anon for asking about facial hair and [@acanofpeaches](http://acanofpeaches.tumblr.com/) for reminding me about LOJ's mustache. That totally got worked in there.  
> \- While it's technically plausible to make wine on an island, it's....only technically plausible. But so help me god I am cramming all the cliches I can into this story, okay.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Burr swears he’s dreaming, watching the ship slowly turn and make her way towards the island. He is distantly aware of tears running down his face, and he’s still waving his torch, laughing and crying all at once. Hamilton’s beside him in much the same state, and Burr drives his torch into the sand, embraces him, wrapping his arms around Hamilton’s shaking shoulders."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after a week of awful writing, and several weeks of not writing and instead wallowing in depression about the state of my country, and then a week of quasi-okay writing, I finally have a chapter!

_The ship is heading towards them_.

Burr swears he’s dreaming, watching the ship slowly turn and make her way towards the island. He is distantly aware of tears running down his face, and he’s still waving his torch, laughing and crying all at once. Hamilton’s beside him in much the same state, and Burr drives his torch into the sand, embraces him, wrapping his arms around Hamilton’s shaking shoulders.

“We did it,” he cries into Hamilton’s neck, “we did it.”

Hamilton says nothing, just holds on to Burr like he’s drowning.

They part, eventually, and watch the ship come in. The ship stops and they hear a splash as the anchor drops, hear the shouts of the sailors. Other people’s voices sound so foreign and beautiful to Burr that tears sting at his eyes all over again. It’s too dark by now to make out much other than the hulking, shadowy enormity of the ship. They hear another splash, and a smaller vessel cuts across the water, the distinct slapping sound of oars on the ocean. A lantern at the bow of the small ship shows the silhouette of a man, but tells them nothing else. Still, Burr keeps his eyes honed on the shape, barely blinking, as if it might disappear.

“Hello?” a voice from that smaller boat calls, “hello?”

“Hello!” they shout back, almost in unison, voices cracked from their earlier screaming.

“Who goes there?”

“Alexander Hamilton! Aide-de-camp of General Washington! And Lieutenant Aaron Burr! We’ve been shipwrecked for…for months, at least.”

Burr hadn’t realized that Hamilton had stopped counting the days. He wonders when that had happened, and why.

The boat hits shore and a man climbs out. Burr can’t quite make out his features – they have only the light of their two sputtering torches. He can make out the pistol in the man’s hand, though. The lantern is still back in the man’s boat, and it serves only to backlight him, make him appear all the more odd – a stranger in their strange land.

“You’re Washington’s men?”

Burr feels a moment of dread, wonders if they’d been happened upon by some stray ship of the king’s – if they’d survived all this just to be shot down like dogs. But the man doesn’t sound disgusted, and his accent isn’t British, it’s something Burr can’t quite place.

“Yes,” Hamilton responds without checking with Burr, honest to a fault, “we were to be ambassadors, but there was a storm. We believe we’re the only survivors of the _Pickering_.”

The man laughs.

“You were Preble’s men?”

The world is a strange, small place.

“I wouldn’t say we were his men,” Burr replies, “rather, we embarked on his ship for France.”

That laughter, again. Burr wishes desperately that the man would step closer, reveal his features, so they might know if they are being laughed with, or at.

“Show you’re unarmed.”

They both raise their hands above their heads.

“Turn around.”

They turn, slowly, deliberately.

Satisfied, the man walks closer. He’s taller than both of them, slender. His eyes are still in shadow under the brim of his hat, but Burr can see well-cut features, refined.

“John Higgins, Admiral of the _Wolverine_ ,” he says, and shakes their hands.

“I’d offer you a drink, under ordinary circumstances,” says Hamilton, “unfortunately, I’m afraid all we have is coconut.”

Burr has to hold back a wild, near-hysterical laugh.

“No worries,” says Higgins, “but there’s not much time for niceties. The men are eager to be off again. Some of them even suggested sailing on past you, but lucky for you men captain Trumbull was curious. Now, are you folks coming? We can discuss details on the ship, but we want to be off soon.”

“Yes,” Burr says, “but can we grab our things first? It won’t take but a moment.”

Higgins takes his lantern from the boat and they walk back to their camp, Higgins following behind. Once there, Hamilton grabs his knife.

“May I?” he asks Higgins, wary of the pistol that’s still in Higgins’s hand.

“By all means,” Higgins replies, and Hamilton tucks the knife – crudely shielded – into his pants pocket.

“Not a bad setup,” Higgins remarks, looking around. The nuances of the camp aren’t discernible, but between the lantern and the moonlight the basic layout is clear enough. Higgins walks, examining their camp. In his inspections, he moves across the garden, crushing one of Hamilton’s plants under the heel of his polished black boot, which pains Burr in a way he can’t quite explain. He looks to Hamilton, to see if he’s noticed, but Hamilton is busy getting water, which he dumps over the embers of their fire. It goes out with a soft hissing noise and a final curl of smoke. Burr grabs his rope, a few of his smaller shells, a piece of sea glass – his sea-treasures, gathered on their walks. He leaves the red conch shell though, the one he’d placed upon the salvaged stack of boards. It’s too big to carry. Burr casts a look to the mouth of their cave, wanting to go in, to say goodbye to the place that had sheltered them, but Higgins is impatient to be off and there is nothing of importance stored in the cave, anyway. Only memories.

They walk back to the ocean, and it occurs to Burr that this is the last time they’ll ever walk this path, and it feels strange. The former elation he’d felt at seeing the ship has abated, instead he feels anxious, chest tight at the idea of going back on board a ship. His hand lifts from his side, as if to take Hamilton’s hand, seeking comfort, when he remembers –

They are no longer alone here.

His hand drops back to his side like a stone.

 

***

 

Higgins rows them to the waiting ship across the moonlight-stricken ocean. They climb up the ladder into a sea of curious faces, men laughing with surprise and delight at these newfound survivors. Burr shakes hands with men whose names he forgets almost immediately, overwhelmed at the sudden array of faces, of voices. A voice booms across the deck and a man strides towards them. The men part for him and Burr assumes this is the _Wolverine_ ’s captain.

“Sebastian Trumbull,” says the man, who’s older, or perhaps it’s just that the years of sun and sea have carved wrinkles into his face too soon. But he’s smiling, and Burr already likes him better than he had Preble.

“Aaron Burr,” he says, just as Hamilton says, “Alexander Hamilton.” A chorus of names.

“Gotta say,” says Trumbull, “finding you two was quite a surprise. It’s not every day that we find us some castaways!”

He laughs at his own comment, and a few of the sailors laugh with him.

“Higgins tells me you’re Washington’s men?”

“Yes,” Hamilton says, “we were sent as ambassadors to France when our boat took a detour, and was hit by a hurricane. We’d be much indebted if you’d see us back to the states.”

“Yes, well,” Trumbull says – an answer that’s not entirely comforting, to Burr, “we’ll talk more of this later. Right now we have to cast off. Get to it, boys!”

He turns, shouting orders, and the men scatter from where they’d encircled Hamilton and Burr, who are now left alone. They walk to the railing, and Burr is reminded of that morning aboard the _Pickering_ , how Hamilton had greeted him with that gratingly cheery tone, rhyming his name; how Burr had fumed at the sight. An interaction between two near-strangers.

It feels like a century ago.

The ship begins to move, and a wind catches her sails so that they billow out like clouds. Hamilton moves from his side without saying anything, heading off to say something to Higgins, and Burr is left alone at the railing as the ship sails onward, taking them away from the island that had been their home for the better part of a year.

As they pull away, Burr turns. Like Lot’s wife, he looks back, but rather than turn into a pillar of salt, he feels a dreadful ache in his chest as he watches the island - _their_ island - recede into the darkness, until he can no longer see it at all.

 

***

 

Higgins takes them to the crew’s quarters, which look much like the ones Burr had glimpsed on the _Pickering_.

“We’re a bit overcrowded at the moment, so you two will have to share a hammock,” he says, leading them to a rather grimy looking hammock strung near the corner of the room.

“That’s fine,” Hamilton says, something odd in his tone that Burr can’t quite figure out.

They place their few items on shelves near the hammock, and Higgins offers them new clothes – the clothes themselves are dirt-stained and ugly, but compared to their own sea-worn clothing it feels like fine silks on Burr’s skin. There’s even boots for them, and though Burr’s are slightly too small and pinch his toes, he’s still grateful to have anything at all. After changing, they move to the dining area, and they’re still twenty feet away when the smell hits Burr, intoxicating – the smell of cooking meat, of bread. He can feel himself salivating.

The meal is delicious. Burr feels awed by it – there’s a stew that’s thick with pieces of beef, biscuits, and each man is even allowed a pat of butter. Beside him, Hamilton groans in ecstasy as he shovels a spoonful into his mouth, and the groan sounds so much like the ones Burr had elicited from him on the island (for other reasons, of course; different things in different mouths) that he has to avert his gaze for a moment. Burr eats every bite and wipes his forefinger along the curve of the bowl, not wasting a drop. He’s aware of the sailors’ eyes on him, the way men at zoos watch the animals, but he’s too full and delighted to care.

After dinner, there’s rum – not much, barely a mouthful for each man, but the alcohol tastes sweet and burns at Burr’s throat. He feels lightheaded, unsure if it’s the alcohol, the food, or the feeling of being saved.

Hamilton fits right in with the men, discussing the islands and trade routes. The men talk less than Burr would have expected, but Hamilton speaks enough to fill their silence, talking of the Caribbean and the price of sugar cane. Hamilton looks bright, awake in a way Burr hasn’t seen him in a long time. This is a different Hamilton, the one Burr recalls from when they’d first met, the one who seems to always find his way to center stage and put on a show worth watching. Not that Hamilton had been _quiet_ , on the island, not by any means, but there had been a less showy quality to his words. He had wanted Burr’s attentions, sure, but he hadn’t performed to get them, not in this same way.

Eventually they disperse, a few crew members going on deck to take the night shift. The rest of them – Burr and Hamilton included – make their way to the crew’s quarters. The room is dark, and they stumble to their hammock, bumping into several sailors on the way. Burr removes his boots but nothing else, climbs tentatively into the hammock. It swings as his weight slips into it, and he tries to stretch out as it rocks. He can hear Hamilton laughing.

“It’s harder than it looks,” Burr protests, but he’s laughing too. The swinging had slowed, but then the hammock dips wildly to the side as Hamilton tries to clamber in, nearly dumping Burr on the floor in the process.

“Watch out!” Burr hisses, hands grabbing at the fabric sides, and Hamilton hurls himself into the hammock in a sort of wild leap, ending up on top of Burr, which is not an unfamiliar position for either of them.

“Sorry,” Hamilton says, and shifts – sending the hammock to rocking again – before finally lying down beside Burr. It’s a tight fit, especially as they lay now – shoulder to shoulder – and the swaying is disconcerting. They lay in silence, listening to the sounds of the other men getting into bed, the eventual chorus of snores. It feels odd, having gone from near-solitude to being surrounded by some three dozen men. More minutes pass.

“Aaron?” Hamilton whispers.

“Yes?”

“We were _rescued_.”

Hamilton still sounds like he can’t believe it.

“I know. I was there.”

“Asshole.”

A pause, then Hamilton speaks again.

“I’m going to talk to Trumbull tomorrow. Try to figure out a way home for us.”

Hamilton shifts, turns onto his side. The hammock sways again, but only slightly.

“Home.”

Burr repeats the word and tries to think of his little place in New York, and not the cave, or the garden they planted. He tries to feel happier about the whole ordeal, but really, all he thinks is that he’s sorry Hamilton has turned away.  

 

***

 

“First, let me say we can get you men home.”

They’re sitting at a small table in Trumbull’s quarters. It’s an intimate affair, just Burr, Hamilton, Higgins, and Trumbull. Burr notices one of Hamilton’s legs jigging, impatient, and fights the urge to put his hand on it, steadying.

“I sense there’s more to be said, captain,” Hamilton says, eyeing the captain with a level gaze. Trumbull meets Hamilton’s gaze, nods.

“The passage won’t be free, of course. You men have no money to speak of, so we’d have to act on your word that we’d receive fare upon arrival. If we don’t, well, I’m not sure we’d let you go.”

“You’d ransom us,” Hamilton replies, and Burr startles, a little. He recalls Hamilton’s joke about Preble ransoming them - _sorry, Aaron, but I don’t know how much Washington would pay for you…_ \- and wonders just how common this practice is among sailors.

“In a word, yes,” Trumbull agrees, amiable enough, “but only if you men fail to turn up sufficient funds on your own. The second matter is, ah, the _Wolverine_ isn’t exactly…welcomed at all docks. So we’d likely have to hand you off further out, unless you could convince the men to let us into port.”

Burr expects more questions from Hamilton, clarifications, but they don’t come. Hamilton instead looks pensive, before finally speaking.

“Do you have someone in New York who would be willing to come meet with us? I could negotiate your safe harbor into the docks. For a price.”

Higgins barks a laugh, and Trumbull shoots his a dark gaze. Burr is still unsure what’s going on, why the men are barred from their docks, why all this intricacy is even necessary. He looks over at Hamilton, who mouths _I’ll explain later_ and that’s enough, because he _trusts_ Hamilton now, trusts him in a way he hasn’t anyone else.

 

***

 

“They’re pirates, you moron,” Hamilton explains, when they’re on the deck near the railing, out of earshot from the other men.

“Shit,” Burr says. All he knows of pirates is what he read in books, and these men seem nothing like them. No eye patches, for one, no peg legs (at least that he’s noticed). No skull-and crossbones flag flying, either (though the flag the _Wolverine_ does fly is of some country Burr doesn’t recognize), “really? They don’t look like pirates.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling, too.

“Modern pirates aren’t so much about buried treasure as they are about more…modern crimes, like extortion,” he muses, “or ransom.”

“What?”

“A few passed through St. Croix, but we weren’t a big enough hub to be worth their while. Don’t worry, Aaron, we’re likely not in danger. They just want money. You’ve got plenty, I’ve got…well, I’ve got Washington’s favor. Or, I had it. Hopefully he still thinks fondly of me, in my presumed death.”

“I’ll pay for us both, Alex. I’ll send letter to my banker as soon as I can.”

“I don’t need--” Hamilton begins to protest.

“I know you don’t need it, but I want to do it. I still owe you my life.”

Hamilton is quiet, then grins again.

“I can’t wait to see their faces when we return. Do you think they held a funeral for us? We have to have been presumed dead. Higgins told me there’s no word from Preble, the ship was assumed lost last he knew, and that plus the lumber we found…”

Hamilton talks on, and Burr muses over his words. Burr hasn’t dwelled on this, the implications of their return from the proverbial land of the dead. He wonders if Theodosia is still living in the area, if perhaps they could reunite, if perhaps that damned husband of hers was finally dead –

But he doesn’t feel joy at the thought of reuniting with her, not in the way he’d expect. In fact, his stomach feels a little ill at the thought– not fluttery, the way it once had, but rather a sort of dread.

Because there’s someone else, isn’t there? Someone impossible, standing on the deck before him.

Impossible.

“We’re gonna be famous, you know,” Hamilton says, “the sole survivors of the _Pickering_. We survived a hurricane, a deserted island, and now pirates! We’ll have to write a book, when we’re back.”

Burr pulls himself from his thoughts at this, nods.

“Maybe Washington will finally respect me,” he says, dry, and Hamilton laughs.

“I’ll put in a good word for you.”

 

***

 

Hamilton procures paper and a quill; even charms Trumbull into letting him use his office. Burr, with paper and quill of his own – intending to pen letters for Sally – follows, but when they sit at the table all he can do is watch Hamilton.

It’s like a whirlwind strikes as Hamilton begins to write furiously, unaware of Burr, unaware of everything except the words being born before him. Hamilton finishes one page, filled from top to bottom with cramped paragraphs, and when he puts it aside to grab a fresh piece of paper Burr catches a glimpse and realizes that, rather than penning letters to any loved ones, Hamilton is unbottling. It’s his ideas, all those ones he had on the island, the ones he shared with Burr at the fireside (and later on, when things changed between them, Hamilton would run his ideas past Burr while they were still naked, entwined). They’ve stayed pent up inside him for so long that the release is almost brutal – Burr watches the way the quill stabs into the paper, the way the words almost run together. It’s a fearful and fascinating thing to watch, and Burr finds himself transfixed, his own quill useless in his hand.

“You’re not writing,” Hamilton says, still writing, not looking up from his paper. Burr’s amazed Hamilton even knows he’s there at all.  

“You’re distracting,” he says, which, while _true_ , is more than he meant to say. Hamilton looks up from his paper at that, smiles at Burr in an odd way, but doesn’t respond. Burr looks down at his own paper, busies himself.

 _Dear Sally_ , he writes, _I hope you are not too surprised to hear from me –_

 

***

 

At Burr’s request, Higgins lends Burr a razor, and Burr takes his time shaving. He studies himself in the mirror – he’d gone months with no knowledge of what he’d looked like, and the face staring back at him is a little strange. His face is thin, cheeks hollowed, and his skin even darker from so much time spent in the sun. There’s some slight wrinkling at the corners of his eyes, barely noticeable. He’s changed.

He shaves his face first, glad to be rid of his paltry facial hair. His head is more difficult, he has no desire to place a razor to his scalp blind. At home, he’d always had the barber do it. Even in the army, he and the other men would help one another out, acting as mirror or barber, whichever the solider desired.

He walks down the hall, towel over his shoulders, and finds Hamilton writing.

“Can you help me?” he says, and Hamilton looks up, takes in Burr’s freshly shaven face. He looks surprised, a little fascinated, and Burr finds his body warming beneath Hamilton’s scrutiny.

“Ah, sure,” Hamilton says, rising out of the chair. He follows Burr down to the washroom. It’s a cramped space, and Burr bends awkwardly over the wash bucket. Hamilton’s hands are astonishingly careful, moving the razor slowly.

“I’ll miss it,” Hamilton sighs.

“Miss what?”

“That shitty mustache.”

Burr considers punching him, but thinks better of it, as Hamilton still has a razor to his skull. He sighs instead, while Hamilton laughs.

Hamilton finishes eventually, and when he’s finished Burr rubs his hand across his freshly shaved head, savoring the texture. Hamilton stands back, admiring his handiwork.

“You look good, Aaron,” he says, and Burr’s stomach flutters.

Hamilton looks at his own face in the mirror, considers.

“I guess I should shave,” he sighs, “or maybe I’ll keep it. I think the full beard is manly.”

“No one wants a lawyer who looks like a bear.”

“Poor analogy. Bears are _terrifying_.”

“I’ve heard their legal arguments suck, though.”

Hamilton sighs, dramatic.

“You win. I’ll shave.”

Burr watches as Hamilton shaves, keeping his goatee. He feels a slight pang, because he knows with a terrible acuity how that beard feels against him, the burn of it on his throat.

They both look into the mirror at the same time, eyes meeting but not-meeting in the glass reflection; their island selves, gone.

 

***

 

In some ways it’s worse, knowing. Knowing what Hamilton tastes like, what he sounds like when he comes. Because Burr is made to sleep next to Hamilton with that knowledge, made to sit next to him with that knowledge, made to talk to him as if they’re nothing but friends; all the time _knowing_ these things, knowing them with a crystal clarity.

Burr doesn’t have a name for it, what transpired between them on the island. Had Hamilton been a woman he would have called it a romance, but romance cannot exist between two men, it’s simply unnatural.

No, it had been a matter of convenience. As he’d said. As _Hamilton_ had said.  The fact his chest aches sometimes, well. It doesn’t matter. It’s just stress manifesting in odd ways.

Hamilton acts strange, too. Begins to keep more distance between them. He spends most of his time in Trumbull’s office, writing. Burr tries to stay down there, but he doesn’t have the same commitment to writing so instead he grows restless, fidgets, until finally he can’t stand the silence and he slips away, back on to the deck, leaving Hamilton down in the office below.

But night always comes, and they’re drawn back together, bodies crammed in the hammock. Burr both dreads and looks forward to the nighttime. He looks forward to it because it’s the only time he doesn’t fret over touching Hamilton; yet he dreads it because being so close is an exquisite sort of torture, to be so near a body his hands and mouth once knew, all that knowledge piled in his throat, full of things he can’t say.

Tonight is no such exception; Burr is still awake, watching Hamilton in the near-dark. He knows he should sleep, but he’s had trouble, tells himself it’s the near-constant motion of the hammock, however slight. As he watches, Hamilton’s face contorts, looks pained. He shifts, though the hammock has little room, and one knee juts into Burr’s thigh.

“ _No_ ,” Hamilton moans, quiet, and now his expression seems outright broken, “don’t leave me.”

It breaks Burr’s heart, a little, to have to bear witness to something so terrible and intimate as nightmares, to be unable to help.

“ _Aaron_ ,” Hamilton says, and Burr checks – no, he’s still asleep. Asleep, and dreaming of Burr, with that pained expression on his face.

In the dark, Burr puts an arm around him, draws him closer, Hamilton’s head nestled into his chest. Hamilton’s movements become still, and Burr fears he’s woken him, but then he hears the steady sleep-rhythm of his breathing.

Burr falls asleep like that, and when he wakes, Hamilton has gone.

 

***

 

At dinner the next night, Trumbull makes his announcement.

“We’ll be stopping in _Luisiana_ in a few days’ time, for trade purposes,” he says. Burr and Hamilton exchange looks

“What, did you think I’d be rushing to get you boys back? Seems like you’ve been away so long, a few more weeks shouldn’t matter.”

“My Spanish is passable,” Burr says, tentatively, “should you men need help.”

Trumbull scoffs.

“It’s still not decided if you can be trusted off the boat.”

“Keeping us locked away would be a waste of your time and our talents. I can negotiate prices, Burr can translate, we’re both trained soldiers – you’d be fools _not_ to take us ashore. We have no money to make an escape with, and we have every desire to return home.”

As Hamilton speaks, Burr wonders on that: _every desire to return home_. Part of him wants to be back in the states, of course. Yet the idea of returning is tarnished with uncertainty – Burr’s plans made stateside have long gone to ruin, and the idea of rebuilding seems strange.

And there’s the fact that stateside, he and Hamilton will part ways, and Burr will have to sleep alone.

 

 

***

 

“Take a break,” Burr tells Hamilton. Hamilton is in Trumbull’s office, writing again. Burr wonders how there’s any words left in him, as the man spends most of his days locked up in there, writing god-knows-what in that small, cramped hand of his. Trumbull had threatened to take the paper away – despite his small cursive, Hamilton was using it up at an alarming rate – but then Hamilton had offered to assist Trumbull with his accounts, thus currying more favor and paper from the captain.

“Just a moment,” Hamilton says, without looking up. Burr watches his hand move.

“ _Alex_.”

Burr sits across from Hamilton, begins to drum his fingers against the dark wood of the table. He keeps at it, feeling like their roles have switched – here he is, vying for Hamilton’s attention, a pest – until Hamilton finally looks up.

“Yes?”

“Come above deck. You need some fresh air.”

Hamilton looks at his writing, the longing clear on his face (and Burr has to suppress an irrational pang of jealousy, at that), but does oblige, placing his quill down

“Ten minutes,” he says. A negotiator to the core.

“A hour.”

“Twenty minutes.”

“Thirty.”

“Deal.”

Burr rises, and Hamilton follows. They walk out onto the deck, the sky an almost painfully beautiful shade of blue. Hamilton blinks in the sun, squinting, and the image makes Burr laugh. He’s in markedly better spirits, which he mostly chalks up to the glorious day and the sea breeze, and not so much the fact that he finally has Hamilton back in his company.

They stand near the bow, close enough that there’s an occasional mist of seawater on their faces. Burr looks out over the railing and Hamilton stands next to him, their shoulders almost touching.

“Teach me Spanish,” he says.

“What do you want to know?”

“All of it.”

Burr leans over, knocks him with his shoulder in mock exasperation.

“Be serious.”

“I _am_.”

“Be realistic, then.”

Hamilton sighs.

“Some numbers, then. Trade terms.”

“Okay,” Burr says, “numbers are kind of like they are in French. Kind of. One is _uno_ , two is _dos_ , three is _tres_ …”

Hamilton is a quick study, though Burr expected nothing else. They cover numbers – up to a hundred, at least – and some basic bargaining.

“Okay,” Hamilton says. They’re sitting down now, backs against the railing, shoulders touching. His brow is furrowed in concentration. “Sell me something.”

“ _Tengo este pan--_ ” Burr begins.

“ _Cuanto_ …” Hamilton begins, unsteady, “ _cuesta_ …?”

He glances at Burr who nods in affirmation.

“ _Cuanto cuesta_?” he says, with authority, now.

“ _Cinco centavos_.”

“ _Demasiado!_ ”

“ _No, es justo._ ”

“ _Tres centavos_. _Si o no?_ ”

Burr pretends to mull the question over.

“ _Cuatro._ ”

“ _Bien.”_

Burr grins.

“Nor bad!”

“I sound like a child.”

“A savvy child, at least.”

Hamilton glares at him.

“ _Pendejo_.”

Burr laughs.

“See? You’re practically fluent already.”

 

***

 

The last night before they are to dock in Louisiana the cook serves up a small feast, emptying some of their stores in anticipation of new ones. There’s more meat stew, potatoes, even a small cake. And more rum – more than a mouthful, tonight, enough that Burr’s head is a little swimmy when it’s time to head for the bunks. Hamilton’s not much better off, swaying a little as he walks, bumping into Burr.

When they get to the hammock, Burr pauses.

“You first,” he says. He still hasn’t mastered the art of getting into the hammock while sober, much less like this.

Hamilton half dives, half falls into the hammock, making it sway so violently that it smacks Burr in the thighs even though he’d been a good distance away. Burr grabs the side of the hammock, stops it’s swaying, looks down at Hamilton, who is facedown and laughing and utterly useless.

“Turn over,” he says in a lowered voice – the men aren’t asleep, yet, but they try not to be too riotous, “I need to get in.”

“Come on in, the water’s fine,” Hamilton says – drunkard’s nonsense, though it makes Burr remember how Hamilton had looked in the water, wet hands on his skin, and ah, he mustn’t think of those things before he crawls into such a tight space. Hamilton rolls, awkwardly, ‘til he’s on his side, one eye peering brightly up at Burr.

Burr places one knee on the fabric, intending to slide himself in, but he takes the other foot off the floor too soon and the hammock rocks again, making him loose his balance. His chest thumps against Hamilton, making Hamilton mutter a soft _oof_.

 _Fuck it_ , Burr thinks, and pushes off, pulling his legs quickly into the swaying hammock. He’s on his side too now, facing Hamilton – _kissing distance_ – and he meets Hamilton’s eyes, which is dangerous in itself, too intimate, because he knows his unnatural want must be written large on his face.

Hamilton grins – devastating – and places a hand on Burr’s hip.

“Steady, boy,” he says, as their rocking slows, and Burr doesn’t know if Hamilton’s talking to him or the hammock.

Burr should turn over but he doesn’t, he wants this moment, this dangerous moment, wants the weight of Hamilton’s gaze and the pressure of his hand on his hip. Hamilton closes his eyes, but his hand doesn’t move.

“Question or command?” Hamilton whispers, soft enough that Burr would not have heard it had he turned over, or had he not has his eyes fixed on Hamilton’s mouth.

“Question,” his own response, little more than a breath. His heart thuds.

“How do you say ‘island’ in Spanish?”

“ _Isla_.”

“And ‘forever’?”

“ _Siempre_.”

“ _Isla siempre_ ,” Hamilton murmurs, and it’s almost nonsense, but it’s not.

“ _Siempre_ ,” Hamilton murmurs again, and he turns over, the hammock shifting, Burr rolling into the space where Hamilton had been. He wants to ask the question, but is too afraid of the answer, so he lets the words die on his lips.

 

***

 

Burr wakes first, and carefully disengages himself from the hammock. He creeps down to the galley for a cup of coffee to take onto the deck. He moves slowly, savoring the drink – _god_ , he’d missed coffee. He looks out over the water. It’s early still, and a fog has settled over most of the water, obscuring his view in any direction. It’s cooler, too – not _cold_ , but after so many months spent under a tropical sun, Burr can feel the difference.

Higgins joins him at the railing, a cup in his own hands.

“Should be there soon,” he says, “are you excited?”

“It still feels like a dream,” Burr confesses. Higgins laughs, though Burr had been serious – he can barely wrap his mind around the idea that they’ll actually be on land in a matter of hours.

“The ocean’s her own world,” Higgins says, “endless and isolated all at once. I suppose it was even worse for you boys.”

“At times,” Burr says, but he feels like he’s lying, somehow.

“At least you got along. Had I been there with him, I might have killed him. Does he ever shut up?”

Burr laughs.

“I found a few ways.”

He says it without thinking, and is glad that Higgins is looking out at the fog rather than at him.

“Speak of the devil,” Higgins says, and there’s Hamilton, walking towards them. His hair is still messy, and he’s bleary-eyed, but he smiles when he sees them.

“Bit too much last night?” Higgins asks, and Hamilton glares briefly at him before taking the cup from Burr’s hands and taking a drink. Burr thinks nothing of it, but then notices Higgins watching this small intimacy and feels nervous, on edge.

“I’ll be off, then,” says Higgins, and slips away smoothly. Hamilton grabs the cup for another sip.

“Rum is _awful_ ,” Hamilton says, like some sage proclamation, and Burr laughs. The sun has begun to cut through the fog and it slowly clears, exposing more ocean, and then, in the distance –

“Land ahoy!”

The cry comes from the man in the crow’s nest up above, but is unnecessary – the fog has cleared enough that the dark mass in the distance is unmistakably land. Burr can see ships in the distance, and seagulls cry overheard, as if welcoming them to the harbor.

Hamilton looks at Burr, eyes bright now, excited.

“Land ahoy!” he repeats, laughing, like he can’t quite believe it, and Burr laughs too.

The land grows closer and larger at a seemingly impossible rate, and in no time they’re sailing into the docks, into the cries of men and gulls, the same bustling chaos Burr had left behind all those months ago. They glide to the dock, the sailors throwing ropes to men on the dock, anchoring the _Wolverine_. There’s a loud thud as the crewmen set up the gangplank.

“Come on, then!” Higgins calls to them, and they move towards the group waiting to disembark.

Hamilton looks once at Burr, a grin splitting his face.

“Shall we?”

Burr nods, and together, they disembark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two steps forward, one step back for these idiots, y'all. Also, you guys are the absolute best.
> 
> Updates may still be erratic, but I have a clearer vision on where this next chapter is going (right now, anyway), so cross your fingers for me.
> 
> Notes:  
> \- John Higgins (and the ship name _Wolverine_ ) is based off a character who appears in L.A. Meyer's Bloody Jack series, if anyone's read that.  
> \- The 'Golden Age of Piracy' went until about the 1730s, but pirate activity was still common in the Caribbean. I'm still kind of striving for plausibility, okay.  
> \- [Louisiana](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Louisiana_\(New_Spain\)) ( _Luisiana_ in Spanish) was under Spain's rule at the time, hence why they're practicing Spanish.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's overwhelming – the shouts in Spanish, the gulls screaming overhead, the movement of the people on the dock. Burr and Hamilton descend the gangplank, down on to the solid wood of the docks. Burr’s legs feel shaky, like they already miss the sea moving beneath them, and he grips onto Hamilton's arm for a moment, steadying himself. Hamilton looks over at him, concern in his dark eyes.  
> “You okay?” asks Hamilton  
> “Yeah,” Burr says, “just a little shaky, is all.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been on a writing bender for two days so enjoy this, a day earlier than I planned on posting, mostly so I will stop adding things to it. Be prepared for a lot of pining and bitchiness because those are my favorite, okay.

It's overwhelming – the shouts in Spanish, the gulls screaming overhead, the movement of the people on the dock. Burr and Hamilton descend the gangplank, down on to the solid wood of the docks. Burr’s legs feel shaky, like they already miss the sea moving beneath them, and he grips onto Hamilton's arm for a moment, steadying himself. Hamilton looks over at him, concern in his dark eyes.

“You okay?” asks Hamilton

“Yeah,” Burr says, “just a little shaky, is all.”

He takes his hand off of Hamilton shoulder, drops it back down to his side. They walk the length of the dock, and then, with no fanfare, they're back on land. Not an island, but actual _land_ , far as the eye can see. It still feels a little like a dream, to Burr, but the solidity of the earth beneath his feet (and no fucking _sand_ ) helps usher into reality the idea that this is actually happening.

They linger at the end of the dock, joined by a growing coalescence of crewmen until finally they are joined by the captain and Higgins. Burr is still unsure what, exactly it is that they will be doing, and what role he and Hamilton may have in it. He prays it is nothing illegal, or at least nothing _too_ illegal, or at least that he and Hamilton will only be involved in the legal parts of it.

“The afternoon and next few days is to be spent gathering supplies, trading, collecting dues,” Trumbull says, “Alexander and Aaron, you are to accompany Higgins today.”

Burr feels reluctant to be coupled with Higgins, recalling that odd look Higgins had given them upon witnessing Hamilton’s interactions with Burr, but he does not protest.

When it’s time to head off, they trail at Higgins’s heels. They head to a market first, filled with a dizzying array of fruits and vegetables, fresh-caught fish and large cuts of meat. Most of it Burr recognizes – he even sees a few coconuts at one vendor’s table – though he and Hamilton take turns pointing out the more exotic items to one another. There are charms, too, snake-oils with outrageous claims, and Burr marvels at all of it.

They go inside a large general store, and while Higgins barters for spices the shopkeep’s son peers out. He’s young, six at the most. Hamilton notices him, waves, and the boy waves back, tentative. Hamilton beckons the boy closer – he and Burr are near the back of the store, placed out of Higgins’s way, but still in his line of sight. At first, Burr thinks the boy will ignore Hamilton, but he steps closer, cautious.

“ _Hola_ ,” Hamilton says, crouching down so he’s eye-level with the boy, “ _como te llama?_ ”

The boy is quiet, so Hamilton continues on, “ _me llamo es Alex_.”

“ _Alonso_ ,” the boy says, finally, so quiet Burr can barely hear. But Hamilton grins, wide, and manages some semblance of a bow from his crouched position.

“ _Cómo estoy_ _, Alonso_?”

It’s a rudimentary conversation, but sweet, in a way - Hamilton is smiling at Alonso, who is laughing at Hamilton’s clunky sentences and messy conjugation, and Burr is smiling at them both, watching Alonso shake Hamilton’s hand, the tenderness that Hamilton takes in closing his hand around the boy’s smaller one. Burr’s so caught up in watching the two that he doesn’t hear Higgins calling their names until the Admiral is close by, snapping his fingers, impatient.

“Sorry,” Burr says, and Hamilton echoes, “sorry,” but Burr catches him turning to look at Alonso, throwing him a wink.

When they’re back out on to the street, heading to their next errand, Hamilton turns to Burr and grins wide.

“So, how’d I do?” he asks, “am I improving, or what?”

“Appalling,” Higgins says, over his shoulder, and Burr didn’t realize he’d been listening, “your accent’s not bad, but your conjugation is shot to hell.”

Hamilton makes a face at Higgins’s back, and Burr laughs.

“Don’t worry,” Burr says, and pats him on the back, “someday you’ll be able to keep up with a five year old.”

Hamilton huffs.

“Give me some credit. I’m pretty sure he was at _least_ six.”

 

***

 

The night ends at the local tavern, where there is beer is all around.

“I'm putting this on your tab,” Trumbull says, and although he’s smiling, Burr suspects there's some truth to it, that somewhere there is a ledger Trumbull keeps, detailing each penny spent in keeping Burr and Hamilton alive. Still, it's a debt Burr will gladly pay, with interest. The beer tastes like heaven, and it's nowhere near so strong is the rum, so Burr can drink slowly and maintain a pleasant buzz rather than veering headlong into drunkenness. There's fish for dinner, and the fish are much larger and meatier than the ones that Hamilton and Burr had secured on the island, cooked to perfection (ah, the wonders of spices and proper cookware, Burr thinks).

After dinner, Burr looks for Trumbull, to thank him, for this is no doubt a startling amount of generosity coming from men whom Hamilton had called pirates, but the man is nowhere to be found. Higgins is gone too, Burr realizes, frowning slightly.

A crewman whom Burr does not know well - he thinks his name is Robert - notices him looking around, and grins.

“They usually leave us alone he first night ashore,” he says, and his grin is strange, like he knows something Burr doesn't.

They remain in the tavern for another hour, and Burr enjoys two more beers, bought for him by one of the sailors who is well into his cups at that point. Burr had not grown close to any of the sailors, most of his interactions limited to a brief exchange of words. Hamilton, however, has made friends easily, won them over with his stories – the one of him arriving into New York harbor while aboard a flaming ship was a winner amongst even the most stoic of listeners, Burr has to admit. Hamilton is considerably drunker than Burr, has had many more beers purchased for him.

Burr notices as much when Hamilton comes up, slings an arm around him.

“Aaron Burr, sir!” Hamilton exclaims, as if they hadn't seen each other in years.

“Alex,” Burr responds, in a tone that’s not quite flat, but not exactly warm either. He's never been good at parties.

“Robert says it’s time for the next part of our adventure,” Hamilton says, and the words are mushy, the sailors behind Hamilton laughing, and Burr feels an awful sense of déjà vu, like he is being left behind again, with no one to blame but himself. Because he doesn’t want this, doesn’t want the loud and drunken company, he wants to be back in the quiet of the boat, curled in their hammock.

(More - though he doesn’t admit it, not even to himself - he wants to be back in their cave, rain pounding overhead, tangled up with Hamilton, laughing and spent, Hamilton pulling him in saying _we’re both messes_.)

But Burr says none of this, only follows quietly, trailing behind the other men. He’s lost sight of Hamilton, somewhere up ahead. They walk a dirty street and Burr almost collides with another man, and when he offers a _perdóname_ the man spits a word Burr doesn’t know and walks on. This rattles Burr for reasons he can’t understand, and he takes a moment to collect himself before realizing the rest of the group has nearly left him behind.

He quickens his step to keep up and makes his way into a shabby-looking building. The room inside is dim and smoky, stinging Burr’s eyes. He inhales too deeply and coughs. He finds the bar easily enough, and though he has no money for beer, he manages to beg a cup of water off the barkeep. It’s lukewarm, but he drinks it gratefully, trying to wash the feeling of smoke from his throat. He stays in that corner, trying to get his bearings. The room is so poorly lit that most of the other patrons look like little more than silhouettes.

A hand touches his arm and Burr barely manages to keep from jumping. He turns, and it’s a woman. She’s a few years older than Burr, and pretty, lips painted red and dark hair loose around her face. She’s dressed just short of indecent, he notices, breasts spilling out from a worn bodice. She’s smiling, and he smiles back.

“ _Buenas noches_ ,” she says, and he returns the greeting. Her hand drops from his arm, though he still imagines the warmth there. Her gaze is intent on him and he feels as if he’s being assessed. He shifts under this gaze, uncomfortable, wishing for beer.

“ _Interesado_?” she says, shifting in a way that makes her breasts more prominent, and when he doesn’t respond, she switches to English, as if perhaps he hadn’t understood, “are you interested?”

“Sorry?”

He says the word, but it hits him before she can respond, and he realizes what kind of place they’re in, the intent here. He should have known – there was a similar attitude, in the army, an attitude Burr often partook in. After long marches – or voyages, he supposes – the men want little more than a ready woman, and are more than willing to pay for the pleasure of such women’s company.

“Sorry,” he says again – not a question, this time – then, “no money.”

“What’re you doing here, then?” she asks, not bitter, but the smile is gone from her face and she is scanning the room again.

“I don’t know,” he says, but she is already gone.

Burr returns the cup to the barkeep, thanks him again, and steps away. It’s obvious, now, the kind of place this is, and he knows he should have recognized a brothel earlier, but women had not been at the forefront of his mind.

A voice cuts through the noise, familiar, and Burr moves gratefully towards Hamilton’s laugh. He sees the cluster of sailors, most with a woman on their arm now (or in their lap). He pulls closer, and there’s Hamilton, seated, beer in hand – and a woman on his lap, arms around his neck, laughing. She’s beautiful, and as Burr watches Hamilton places a hand on her thigh in a place where her skirt has crept up.

Burr’s stomach turns leaden and he stops, turns. For a moment he forgets where the door is and he feels panicked, because he has to get out, the room is suddenly too small, too loud – _her arms on his neck, his hand on her thigh_ – and he has to move. He stumbles through the crowd, finally finds the door, pushes it open. He lurches out onto the street, still smelling the stench of beer and smoke. Nausea threatens itself in his leaden stomach and he takes a few more steps, places his hand against the boards of the neighboring building, leans over and retches, though nothing comes up but a thick string of spittle.

 

***

 

Burr makes his way slowly back to the ship, feeling half in a daze, trying to make sense of his thoughts, of his visceral reaction. He had _known_ , objectively, that what had transpired between them on the island was a matter of convenience, that anything else was a manifestation of his own mind. Of _course_ Hamilton would go back to women as soon as the opportunity presented itself, and Burr has no claim, no _right_ , and he shouldn’t be feeling this way, sick and jealous and terribly sad, picturing Hamilton’s hand on the woman’s thigh, and its inevitable progression to other places.

He realizes he’s lost – in the literal sense of the word as well as the figurative – and all the buildings look the same. He ends up stopping a man to ask for directions but the man doesn’t speak a word of English and Burr forgets the word for _the docks_ so he ends up saying _el mar, el mar_ – the sea, the sea – over and over again until the man points in the direction Burr had been heading in anyway.

By the time he finally reaches the docks – he’d taken some kind of detour that had added at least a mile to his journey – he is somewhat more composed, though his stomach still feels uneasy and his mind keeps trying to replay that image of the woman on Hamilton’s lap, her beautiful head tipped back in her merriment. _He must be so glad to be with women again_ , Burr thinks, embittered as his boots ring out hollow steps on the wood. He reaches the _Wolverine_ , finally, nods to the sullen guard at the end of the gangplank as he makes his way back on to the ship. He goes to the crew’s quarters, thinking he’ll take advantage of the quiet and a hammock to himself. Instead, he finds himself lying there wide-awake, everything around him too quiet, the hammock too empty. Restless, he rolls out of the hammock, slips his boots back on and moves silently towards the deck.

His eyes flutter close and he sighs as he steps out onto the deck, a cool breeze welcoming him. The stars overheard are devastatingly bright, the sky cloudless, letting every constellation be known. it reminds Burr of how he and Hamilton had lain on their backs in the sand, Hamilton pointing out known constellations, making up their own, and now Burr can’t unsee those shapes when he looks up to the night sky.

It’s quiet, on the deck, with the boat docked and all the crew gone, but Burr still moves quietly, reverently, slipping across the deck when he hears a low moan.

Burr stills, listens, and the moan comes again. For a second he panics, thinks someone’s been hurt, but the noise lacks the particular urgency of pain. He figures he should turn away, go back to the crew’s quarters, but curiosity overwhelms his good sense and spurs him forward. He moves even more quietly towards the noise, aware he is sneaking now, moving with the soundless steps the army had taught him.

There against the ship’s largest mast are two figures, wrapped in an embrace, hands busily moving over bodies, kissing and murmuring things Burr can’t make out. His eyes adjust further to the moonlight and he identifies the figures just as Higgins drops to his knees before Trumbull, hands working at the fastenings of the captain’s pants and Burr flees without watching anything further, head spinning.

He moves quickly down to the crew’s quarters, pitches himself into the hammock like a child hiding from a displeased parent. He doesn’t think either man had seen him – they’d been far too preoccupied in one another – but the _what-if_ thought pounds in his head like a headache for a long time before his brain moves on to trying to make sense of what he had seen.

Trumbull and Higgins together – _kissing_ – other things too – with a familiarity that leads Burr to guess that it’s not the first time. Out on the deck, too, with little secrecy. And with _one another_ , choosing this – each other - even with the whorehouse not but a few miles off – no _matter of convenience_ , this. Burr tries to think back to other times he’d seen the two men interact, and does recall that they share quarters – not an uncommon thing, though, space is prized on a ship, though Preble had certainly had his own quarters. Burr’s mind reels with the thought of it all, and it seems to take hours for him to fall asleep, thinking of bodies wound together and what they might mean.

He wakes sometime in the night as Hamilton crawls into the hammock next to him. Hamilton smells like cheap perfume and smoke. He feels Hamilton settle against him, warm.

“Aaron?” Hamilton whispers, but Burr pretends not to hear. Pretends he is asleep. There are a few more moments of silence, of Hamilton holding his breath, and then a sigh. Burr fixatedly keeps his eyes closed and tries to breathe through his mouth.

 

***

 

The next morning most of the crew are hungover, but soon enough are laughing over the events of last night. Burr tries very hard not to listen, and when Hamilton sits beside him he looks straight ahead. He knows he’s being childish, acting like some scorned lover, but he can’t help it.

“Aaron?” Hamilton says again, and this time Burr cannot pretend to be asleep.

“Yes?”

“Where’d you go last night? I was looking for you.”

Burr doubts this. Hamilton had been doing a very different kind of looking at the girl in his lap.

“Went back to the ship. Was bored of the crew, and didn’t have the money to buy better company.”

He’s bitter, and it shows himself in his tone. Had he been in a better mood, he would have wanted to tell Hamilton what he saw between Trumbull and Higgins, to gauge his reaction. And he might have anyway, if he didn’t remember the smell of smoke and perfume, the image of Hamilton’s hand on the woman’s thigh. He found his _company_ just fine. So he tells nothing else.

“I see.”

Hamilton goes back to his breakfast, and Burr to his. They don’t say anything else, and later, Burr notes Hamilton talking to Trumbull, and when assignments are made Burr is sent with Higgins again, and Hamilton is sent with Robert. The two men are standing together already, laughing, and Burr watches this and wonders where the Hamilton he thought he’d known had gone; or if perhaps he is the one who is changing, or has changed.

He doesn’t ponder this for too long, because Higgins is beside him, dressed sharp, hair pulled neatly back. Burr can’t find it in himself to meet his eyes, recalling last night’s events and his own voyeurism.

Burr follows Higgins on his errands, not contributing much – Higgins’s Spanish is flawless where Burr’s is merely passable, and it’s clear Higgins knows his way around the city. Burr follows like a dog, and when Higgins is busy he observes him, wondering. Higgins is a handsome man, and likely rich (even if through dubious means) – he dresses finer than any other man on the ship. Burr’s also learned there’s a wit about him - dry as a bone, but there when you listen. He could clearly have his choice of women, so why had he chosen Trumbull? Nothing about Higgins seems wretched or vile; he doesn’t match the caricature of a sodomite that Burr’s grandparents had imparted on him in childhood.

Burr wishes he could ask, but he can’t think of a way to form the question without exposing himself – firstly as a voyeur, secondly as a sodomite himself – so he keeps his mouth shut and turns these questions around in his head, churns them over and over again like milk is whipped into butter.

They meet with several men, one after another, and though Higgins gives each man a small bag of coins they walk out of each meeting empty handed, with promises of deliveries to their ship. It seems oddly trusting to Burr, and he says as much.

“Don’t get far without trust,” Higgins says idly.

“But have you ever been betrayed?”

“Sure, it’s bound to happen.”

“And what…what did you do about it?”

Higgins laughs.

“They paid, in the end. They all do.”

Burr wonders what the form of payment had been, for the traitors.

“Want lunch? I’ll add it to your tab,” Higgins asks, grinning. Burr agrees, though he’s not particularly hungry – his stomach has felt uneasy ever since last night.

Lunch is pork and beans, overwhelmingly fatty and salty and rich and Burr eats all of it because it’s expected of him, and he feels heavy after, sick. He’s quiet through most of the lunch because when he looks at Higgins he sees him pressing against Trumbull, going to his knees, and it’s disorientating and uncomfortable.

“Our little crew lost its conversationalist, I suppose,” Higgins says, dry, stirring his tea, “were you two quarrelling?”

 “I don’t see how that’s your business,” Burr snaps. He regrets his tone immediately, but Higgins seems unperturbed.

“It’s my business that my crew gets along,” Higgins says, “or, barring that, that their differences are settled with pistols landside before we’re all crammed together on the ship.”

Burr shifts, uncomfortable.

“I don’t know,” he says. They’re not _fighting_ , not even disagreeing – rather, Burr is punishing Hamilton for reasons he can tell no one.

Higgins raises a brow but says nothing else, leaving the conversation to Burr.

“It’s nothing,” Burr says. And it is. It’s his own damn feelings dragging him down. He’ll get over it. He has to.

“I see,” says Higgins, “well, do let us know if we need to get the pistols before we leave.”

It takes a beat before Burr realizes it’s a joke, and he smiles, just a little.

“Duly noted.”

 

***

 

That night Trumbull proclaims half the men are to be at the ship by eight of the clock, and Hamilton and Burr are among them. Burr is glad – he has no desire to go back out, and besides, he’s tired from wandering the city all day and from only a few hours of restless, fitful sleep the night before.

After dinner, Hamilton retreats to the office. Burr follows, hesitant – he’s thought on this all day, on Higgins asking _were you two quarrelling_ , and he knows he’s the one who started it, with his sullen treatment of Hamilton that morning and he should apologize for such childish behavior. It’s not Hamilton’s fault that Burr’s feelings warped somewhere along the way, that he’s now suffering unnatural desires even with the island and their isolation far behind them.

He sits across from Hamilton, who does not look up at first, does not greet him, Hamilton’s own pettiness showing. Burr inhales, deep.

“Alex,” he says, and Hamilton sighs – a bit dramatic, Burr thinks – and looks up.

“Yes?”

“I wanted to apologize.”

“For…?”

“I left early last night because I was jealous...”

True.

“…of how easily the crew has accepted you.”

A lie.

“You know I don’t make friends easily, and, well, after….after everything that happened, I consider you one of my close friends. Perhaps my closest. And of course it’s not expected that you feel the same friendship towards me, as I know you’ve always had many friends, but last night I think I was envious of how easily you fell in with the others.”

(Envious of the woman, who could sit so boldly on Hamilton’s lap, with no one batting an eye.)

Hamilton says nothing for a moment and Burr has to fight the urge to flee the room.

“Aaron, you idiot,” Hamilton says, but his tone is kind, and he’s put his quill aside, he’s looking at Burr now and his face looks so terribly beautiful in the candlelight that Burr doesn’t know how he can look at him full-on.

“Of _course_ you’re my closest friend. You’ve saved my life, probably several times. And not to brag, but I’ve saved yours. We’re bound together, you and I.”

 _Like knots_ , Burr thinks, and oh, what he wouldn’t give to take Hamilton’s hand, interlace their fingers.

“I need the crew to like me. Like _us_. Remember, for as well as they treat us, we’re still at their mercy. One wrong move and they could maroon us on another island, if they so choose.”

Burr thinks of how he’d snapped at Higgins, and flushes. He forgets so easily, that they’re captives. Hamilton continues on.

“I want the transfer to go as smooth as possible. And for that, I need them to like us, to trust us that we won’t try to turn them in or something. And besides, they’re actually pretty interesting guys. Have you read the pirate code?”

“Alex, why on _earth_ would I have read the pirate code?”

“Never mind. I’ll tell you more about it later. Point is, they have some great ideas. They’re smart. I’ve learned a lot from them, and you could too, if you weren’t always off brooding somewhere.”

Burr flushes.

‘You’re right, you’re right. That’s why I’m trying to apologize.”

“You’re forgiven.”

Burr smiles.

“I’ll be off to bed, then,” he says, and rises up from the chair, “goodnight, Alex.”

“I’m not far behind,” says Hamilton, though he glances back to his paper, and Burr doubts it, “goodnight, Aaron.”

Burr moves back to the quarters and lies in the hammock. It’s quieter, with half the men landside, and things are almost isolated, in their dingy corner. Burr is surprised when Hamilton joins him not thirty minutes later, crawling into the hammock with a surprising deftness. He feels Hamilton’s chest flush against his back, his knees pressing into the back of Burr’s thighs. They’ve slept back to back, lately, but the night is cool and the one measly blanket they share is not enough, so Burr welcomes the extra warmth of a body flush against his, assumes the cold is why Hamilton chose to get into bed this way. Half asleep, he shifts to better fit his back to Hamilton, but it’s still not right, so he shifts again, which is when Hamilton grabs his arm, fingers pressing tight into Burr’s flesh.

“ _Aaron_ ,” Hamilton says, low, and his hips cant forward into Burr and he feels it, feels _him_ , Hamilton’s arousal. Burr feels himself growing hard, too, pushes back into him as Hamilton grinds, and this is the same way Hamilton greeted him so many mornings on the island, and maybe he still wants this, wants _Burr_. Burr rolls his forehead towards the crook of his arm, to muffle the groan that wants to come from him, when he catches a whiff of perfume. He’d ended up on Hamilton’s side of the hammock, hadn’t realized it, and here was the memory of last night sunk into the fabric, and _she_ is likely who Hamilton is thinking of now as he grinds himself into Burr with last night’s memories.

He shifts away, rolls out of the hammock, feet thudding on to the floor.

“I need some air,” he says, quiet, and he doesn’t look at Hamilton because he doesn’t think he can bear it, instead he walks out of the quarters as quick as he can, doesn’t even pause to put his boots on.

He stands barefoot on the deck, half-freezing in his thin shirt, but glad for the chill, as it cools his cheeks and imminent desire both. _God_ , but he was an idiot. There’d been a moment, Hamilton grabbing his arm, whispering his name, when Burr had believed – actually believed! – that Hamilton had wanted _him_ , that his desire was more than something situational, something _convenient_ (oh, how he’s grown to despise that word), something other than a mouth and hands.

 

***

 

Burr would have preferred to stay on the deck all night, but Higgins finds him after an hour. Burr is sitting with his back to the railing, tying and untying knots. He’s learned several new ones since coming on board the _Wolverine_ , but has failed to practice them as he should have.

“Go back to the quarters, Burr. No one should be on deck without cause at this hour.”

Burr does have cause, but it’s not the kind of cause he can relate to Higgins.

He stands, shakily – one leg is asleep from him sitting on it wrong. The rope dangles in his hands, the half-done knot untangling itself.

“Sorry, Higgins. I didn’t mean to be trouble.”

“I’ll ask again, Burr – is everything okay? With you and Hamilton?”

 _No_ , Burr wants to say, _no, because I’m in love with him, and it’s not okay_.

“Yes,” Burr says instead, “things are just…a little tenser than I’m used to.”

The silence speaks volumes to Higgins’s belief of his statement, but he doesn’t press the issue.

“Then go back to bed, Burr.”

Burr does, but when he makes it back to the quarters he doesn’t climb into the hammock, he sleeps on the hard floor of the ship instead, curled up the night chill and struggling to sleep alone.

 

***

 

Hamilton finds him at breakfast the next morning, corners him before the day’s assignments are made.

“Aaron, about last night, I --,” Hamilton begins, and Burr can’t believe he’s actually trying to _talk_ about it, justify himself for using Burr.

“It’s nothing,” he says, short, closing the door on the topic. He doesn’t want to even _think_ about it, much less talk about it; it makes his stomach feel leaden, sick, the way he had felt outside the brothel. Hamilton looks shocked, pained, and Burr wavers between feeling glad – _he should feel bad, using me_ – and terrible, wanting to comfort him, make him smile again.

“Okay,” Hamilton says, but he doesn’t let it die, “Aaron, I thought--”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Burr snaps, and he weaves past Hamilton, “it’s fine. It’s nothing.”

It’s neither of those things, but Burr is a good liar, when he has to be.

“Okay,” Hamilton says again, quieter, meeker, and Burr thinks for a moment he actually looks _disappointed_ , “sorry, Aaron.”

Burr leaves without responding, and when the day’s assignments are made, Hamilton is sent off with Robert again, and Burr with Higgins, but this time Burr is glad for the separation, because he doesn’t want to deal with Hamilton’s kicked-puppy expression, with his stupid excuses.

“Sorry you have to babysit again,” he tells Higgins as they set off, but Higgins looks at him, a bit surprised.

“I requested you, actually,” Higgins says, and now Burr is surprised.

“Really?”

“Really. Your Spanish isn’t great, but you’re smart, and there’s something a bit ruthless in you.”

“Thanks. I think.”

“You’d make a great pirate, actually. If you don’t think America would be for you…”

“Sorry, Higgins, I’ve got my mind set on a position in government.”

“Call me John. And like I said – ruthless. Government will suit you well.”

Burr isn’t quite sure if he’s been insulted, or complimented. Possibly both.

 

***

 

The last call Burr and Higgins make on their rounds is a falling-down house at the end of the street. The house’s occupant matches his dwelling; he’s filthy, hair matted, eyes red from broken blood vessels. He’s drunk, too, reeking, and when they enter the house they both choose to stand, making as little contact with anything in the dwelling as possible.

“You’ve yet to pay us,” Higgins says, and his voice is calm, measured. Burr admires it, for he’s still taking shallow breaths through his mouth, trying to breathe in as little of the man’s stench as possible.

“I paid you,” the man says, “back in April.”

“That was six months ago,” Higgins says, “you know the dues come ‘round twice a year.”

“Fucking robbery,” the man grumbles, but he moves to his desk – covered in papers and unidentifiable stains – and appears to look for something. Burr looks at the floor – collapsing in places – and watches a bug crawl across the floor. Higgins is looking elsewhere too, and when the man moves – he’s _fast_ – Burr barely has time to shout a warning. The man rounds the desk, quick, and there’s a knife in his hand, charging at Higgins. Higgins reacts quickly, chambering his knee up and sending his foot out the way you might kick down the door, kicking the man flush in the chest, stopping his momentum. The movement causes Higgins to stumble back into the wall, and when the man regains his balance, comes forward again, Burr is there. He blocks the stab as he’d been taught in the army – wrist to wrist, fingers extended, always going into the attack, not giving them a chance to gather steam – and as he blocks he sends out a punch that connects solidly with the man’s jaw, sends him reeling back. Burr advances in, throwing more punches, and is distantly aware of something – the knife – grazing his arm, and then it clatters away and the man is sprawled out on the floor, out cold, and Burr’s knuckles are bleeding and he isn’t entirely sure what happened.

“ _Aaron_ ,” there’s a voice and it’s Higgins, coming around the desk, grabbing his arm, leading him out. They move away from the house, walking quickly, and eventually Burr’s heart rate slows to something close to normal.

“We should have stayed,” he says, “and got your money.”

Higgins reaches into his pocket, pulls out a small pouch.

“I got it, thanks to your little distraction. Nice moves, by the way. Army did you well.”

Burr laughs, looking at the pouch in Higgins’s hand.

“Guess I can finally call myself useful, then,” he says. Higgins laughs.

“Guess so.”

 

***

 

Dinner that night is a celebration, and it’s declared that they will be settling sail the next day to continue on their route. After dinner most of the crew take off for the taverns (and the brothel, no doubt), but Trumbull takes Burr aside, casts a glance at his arm, freshly bandaged. The cut was superficial, but Higgins had insisted, wrapping it for him and giving him a roll of bandage.

“John told me you were quite helpful today with a…difficult client.”

Burr looks down, modest.

“I think Admiral Higgins had him just fine, but I was glad to help.”

Trumbull laughs.

“He’s a fighter, for sure. Still, I’m pleased to know you stepped in. We do plan on rewarding you for such a thing; part of Mr. Hopwood’s dues will be shared with you and your _matelot_.”

The word – _matelot_ – has a French pronunciation to it, but Burr doesn’t recognize it.

“My who?”

“Mr. Hamilton?”

“Ah, yes, of course.”

Burr thinks it’s odd that his reward should be shared with Hamilton – who hadn’t so much as been in the room where the fight had happened – but he doesn’t argue, he’s willing to share, grateful to have anything at all.

“Thank you very much for your generosity, captain.”

He is genuine in his thanks – the reward bespeaks a fairness Burr had never expected from pirates, of all things.

After this, Burr goes to Trumbull’s office, hoping to read, and is shocked to find Hamilton there, writing again.

“I thought you’d gone out,” Burr says, standing in the doorway. He wonders if he should go. But why should be cede any room to Hamilton?

“Nah,” Hamilton says, “going around with Robert all day was exhausting. The man doesn’t shut up.”

Burr laughs.

“You’re one to talk.”

“At least what I have to say is _interesting_.”

Burr makes the decision, comes into the room. Hamilton’s eyes fall to the bandage on Burr’s arm, he stands up, moves closer.

“What happened?”

“Things with a client got ugly. I’m fine, though, just a little cut.”

Hamilton touches the bandage, light, though Burr can still feel the pressure of his fingers through the bandage.

“I hope you kicked his ass.”

“I did. Definitely. Out cold.”

Hamilton laughs, and goes back to the table, resumes writing. Burr sits across from him and studies maps, and it feels almost peaceful.

They sleep back to back that night, and Burr’s sleep is deep and dreamless.

 

***

 

Burr wakes up early and heads to the deck to load himself up with caffeine before the morning’s chaos sets in. When he gets to his favorite spot on the railing he finds Higgins is already there, his own cup of coffee in hand.

“Early riser,” Higgins says, surveying him, “good morning, Aaron.”

Burr takes this as an invitation, and joins him at the railing. It’s still quiet, in the near pre-dawn, only a few men on the docks.

“It’s gonna be crazy this morning,” Higgins remarks, “hope you’re prepared to be put to work.”

“Always.”

“Atta boy.”

“Higgins…John, I mean. I wanted to thank you.”

“For what?”

“Trumbull spoke to me last night. Said I’d be getting a portion of Mr. Hopwood’s dues. I assumed that was your doing.”

Higgins smiles.

“Ah, no, that was all Sebastian. I mean, I told him about what happened, but I have to say rewarding you was his idea, not mine. Not that you aren’t deserving, it simply didn’t occur to me, being a greedy pirate and all. He’s the soft-hearted one in this operation.”

Higgins laughs, as much to himself as anything else, a softness in his eyes when he speaks of the captain, and Burr thinks about the two of them, locked in an embrace against the mast.

“John?”

“Yes?”

“What’s a _matelot_? Captain Trumbull said it last night – said Hamilton was mine? - but I don’t know the word.”

“A _matelot,_ well – it means your bedfellow. The one who you share bread and bed with; who gets your share of bounty should you die. The one you’re bound to.”

 _Like knots_ , Burr thinks, _like knots_.

He wants to ask more questions, but by then more men are off, calling Higgins’s name, and Higgins smiles.

“Duty calls,” he says, and he’s off before Burr can say anything else.

The morning is busy, chaotic with last minute supplies being loaded on board. Hamilton and Burr are recruited to help and Burr spends several hours lifting and stacking boxes until his arms and legs ache. He’s sweating profusely, for it’s hot as blazes by midmorning, all the night’s chill burned off, but it feels good, to be so engulfed in work. He savors any distraction he can. Hamilton works beside him more often than not, and they move the heavier items together, one at each end. Hamilton, of course, decides on a better way to rearrange the cargo so they can fit in more, and when he shares the idea with Trumbull, Trumbull likes it, which means another two hours of moving and stacking, and Hamilton is the recipient of more than a few glares from the other sailors.

They finally finish, and prepare to cast off, the anchor pulled up and dropped on the deck. The last few ropes are thrown on board, the sail unfurled – and then they are off, leaving Louisiana behind, back out on to the sea. It’s the first calm moment they’ve had all day and Burr breathes in the salt-tinged air.

“Next stop, America.”

Hamilton stands beside him and when Burr looks over he’s smiling.

“For real?” Burr asks.

“Trumbull confirmed this morning. May be a bit awkward when we get there, but it’s the next stop on their route.”

Burr laughs and Hamilton follows suit, and in this moment it feels easy, light between them.

“We’re going home, Aaron.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> as always I just. love you guys so much. the comments make my life.
> 
> Read Hamilton's POV during the brothel scene [here](http://thinksideways.tumblr.com/post/171461677456/pov-for-the-writing-meme)
> 
> notes:  
> \- The graduated Spanish minor in me would like to add the disclaimer that Alex's Spanish is fucked up on purpose :)  
> \- Uhhh in case you have a photogenic memory or something I changed Higgins's rank from first mate to admiral. Went back and edited chapter 7 to reflect that.  
> \- [Matelotage](http://thepirateempire.blogspot.com/2013/07/gay-marriage-among-pirates.html) is an early form of gay marriage/commitment that sprung up among pirates. Ahoy, matey.  
> \- I'm not saying [this song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dysG12QCdTA) is my inspiration for Trumbull & Higgins ~~or that I've totally written a backstory for them in my head~~ , but, uh....


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _We’re going home_ , Hamilton had said, and while that was true, it was still largely an abstraction to Burr, who was no longer sure he had a real home to go back to. His purpose had been redefined into being an ambassador, and of course, that idea hadn’t panned out, and now he’ll be returning home with all these experiences, a changed man. He tries not to think about it overmuch, takes an _I’ll believe it when I see it_ approach – after all, the journey would take at least a week, and anything can happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I'm alive!  
> ALSO a note: because I'm a huge idiot who apparently can't remember things I fucked up Higgins's name in the last chapter (calling him James instead of John), and big thanks to Ham4Lin for pointing that out. So Higgins's first name is JOHN, not James. whoops.

The shoreline soon disappears behind them and they are once again surrounded by water on all sides, seemingly endless. Burr never thought he’d be glad for this particular kind of isolation, but he finds himself smiling as he looks out at the ocean.

_We’re going home_ , Hamilton had said, and while that was true, it was still largely an abstraction to Burr, who was no longer sure he had a real home to go back to. His purpose had been redefined into being an ambassador, and of course, that idea hadn’t panned out, and now he’ll be returning home with all these experiences, a changed man. He tries not to think about it overmuch, takes an _I’ll believe it when I see it_ approach – after all, the journey would take at least a week, and anything can happen.

 

***

 

In the following days, Burr takes to waking up early and joining Higgins on the deck for coffee in what quiet the ship can muster. It’s an odd friendship, one Burr never would have expected – that he would have grown friendly with the stranger who’d first come to their little island’s shore would have seemed laughable only a few weeks ago – but he enjoys it.

This particular morning, he asks Higgins about the gold ring on his hand. Higgins stretches the hand in question out, looks down at the ring, a small smile on his face as he does so.

“Legally, doesn't mean much outside our ship,” Higgins says, “but it means enough to us.”

Burr looks at the ring as well, curious. The concept of _matelotage_ is still strange to him, and ill-defined, and he thinks it might be uncouth of him to pester Higgins overly much about it. Besides, it doesn't matter, because although Trumbull and Higgins have made their assumptions about Burr and Hamilton, Burr knows the truth of it, that he and Hamilton are in no way bound, at least not in the way that Higgins and Trumbull are. Still, Burr does not correct these assumptions, nor does he lie about them, simply lets the men assume. In a way, it’s nice to pretend.

“How's the arm doing?” Higgins says, changing the topic, then, without waiting for an answer, says, “let me see.”

“Barely hurts at all,” Burr says, stretching his arm out so that Higgins can observe it. The arm is unbandaged, now, the wound scabbing over. Higgins takes Burr’s wrist with one hand and with the other runs a finger near the cut, focused.

“It’ll probably scar,” he muses, “though not too badly.”

Burr laughs, though Higgins’s statement wasn’t meant to be humorous.

“Won’t be my first scar from this journey.”

Higgins’s finger stays on his skin for a moment longer, and then he releases Burr’s arm. Burr looks down at his arm, at the space where the fingers had been, the scabbed-over wound.

“Ah, I’ve got to be going,” says Higgins, and Burr nods goodbye. He watches him leave, and it’s only then he notices Hamilton, who is looking at Higgins with a frown pulling at the corners of his mouth.

Burr walks to him, head cocked slightly.

“Good morning,” he says, “you all right?”

Hamilton glances at Burr, then Higgins’s retreating form. He’s still frowning, as if working out some puzzle in his mind.

“Fine,” says Hamilton, in the short way people spit the word when they’re not fine.

“Alex…”

“What does he want?”

“Who? John?”

“Is that what you call him?”

“He’s my friend. I’m allowed to have those.”

Burr isn’t sure why he feels defensive. He’s can’t understand why Hamilton seems to have taken this dislike of Higgins.

“He seems…”

Hamilton trails off. Burr looks at him, a mixture of curious and still defensive. Surely he’s allowed one friend while Hamilton has half the crew vying for his favor?

“I wonder about his interest in you, is all. Grow too close, and people talk.”

Burr thinks back to the light press of fingertips. It’s ridiculous, of course – they’re _friends_. Still, the dark look in Hamilton’s eyes makes him uneasy. Surely Hamilton isn’t so reviled by the thought that he’d expose Burr? He couldn’t do so without exposing himself, though.

He wonders if Hamilton knows about Trumbull and Higgins. Burr hadn’t told him – he wasn’t sure why, exactly, but he’d kept that secret. Still, Burr had watched the two, and though they were not public in their affections there was a quiet intimacy in their interactions – a closeness when they spoke, arms draped around shoulders. Once, Burr had even walked past their closed quarters midday and heard the creak of bedsprings, so it’s not like they were especially secretive about their ongoings. And Hamilton _was_ a gossip, ready to give as he was to take, so surely one of the men had told him. Of course, if Hamilton knew, why had he not come to Burr with this knowledge?

Unless he didn’t want Burr to think it was normalized, didn’t want to bring Burr’s thoughts back to…well, back to the island, make him think there was something there.

“We’re friends,” Burr says, and this time his voice is a little too clipped. He isn’t sure who he’s trying to convince.

“Right,” says Hamilton, “anyway, I’m gonna go get breakfast.”

He leaves Burr, who watches him descend below deck. Unconsciously, Burr’s hand rises to his wound, fingers tracing the path Higgins’s had lain out not much earlier.

 

***

 

Burr and Hamilton help where they can in the running of the ship. Hamilton’s skill as a writer is well-known, and he is enlisted to help the crew with writing letters to families and sweethearts to be posted when they next hit shore.

“It’s sweet,” Hamilton tells him as they sit in the office, Hamilton putting the final edits on one man’s letter, “they write how much they miss them, how they can’t wait to hold them, kiss them. Of course, some of the men want the same letter sent to several women…”

“Think they’d still want your help if they knew you were such a gossip?” Burr teases.

“They’ll all tell it to your face, Aaron, it’s hardly _gossip_ , you know I’m above that.”

Burr only looks at him, brows raised.

“Well,” Hamilton amends, “ _mostly_.”

Burr laughs, and it’s quiet again in the office. There’s a book in his lap, open to pages he reads with no real comprehension, because his main focus is on Hamilton, on the easy way it is with him. He’d never dreamed of sharing silence with Hamilton – for a long time, he’d thought of _silence_ and _Hamilton_ as two contradictory objects, unable to exist with one another – but it happens, now, most often when Hamilton is engrossed in his writing, ink staining his wrist. It’s a beautiful thing to watch, such a mind at work. At first Burr had felt voyeuristic about it, uncomfortable, but when he’d risen to leave Hamilton had looked up and asked where he was going, and there had been something like disappointment in his voice, and so Burr had stayed.

He stays as often as he can, these nights, because as _home_ grows closer the time he has with Hamilton decreases, grains of sand tumbling through an hourglass, and the thought of going without Hamilton makes Burr dreadfully sad and nervous. They’ve spent a year now living in close proximity, sharing space, sharing a bed.

So he savors the moments, even the ones so mundane as this, with Hamilton writing, Burr reading (pretending to), the silence punctuated by Hamilton asking Burr questions, Burr answering. Sometimes the questions are brief, and Hamilton sinks back into his writing, and sometimes they turn into more complex conversations.

Burr’s the one to break the silence, tonight, a moment of bravery spurred on by that ever-ticking countdown clock that has rooted itself in his chest.

“What are you planning to do when we get home?” he says, then adds, “for work, I mean.”

Hamilton puts his quill down, considers the question.

“I’m not sure,” he begins, “it depends on the state of things. I may have some messes to clean up. I want a government post at some point, but may practice as a lawyer first. You know I like arguing.”

“Never noticed.”

Hamilton sticks his tongue out at him.

“What about you, Aaron?”

“Practice as a lawyer, most likely.”

Hamilton seems to consider something, but Burr speaks on.

“It doesn’t feel real, yet. Not until we set foot on shore.”

There is more to ask on Hamilton’s plans upon returning to shore, another item Burr both wants and dreads asking Hamilton about: _Eliza_. He assumes the engagement between her and Hamilton had been terminated when her father absconded with her upon the announcement of Hamilton’s ambassadorship, but with them returning, Burr wonders - both what’s become of her, and what’s become of Hamilton’s feelings towards her. But he doesn’t ask this, as if saying her name will make it real, or will somehow remind Hamilton of her existence.

Even if Eliza has left the city, or has married someone else, Burr is sure Hamilton will easily find some other rich, politically-savvy family to marry into - probably a girl even richer than Eliza, now that Hamilton has his wild tale of shipwreck and survival to share.

Burr thinks of marriage, too, but the idea makes his stomach feel queasy. He still misses Theodosia, but his feelings for her have changed in their absence. He hadn’t sent word to her when they were on land, too paralyzed by the thought to take any such action. He thinks of the gold ring on Higgins’s finger and feels sicker still, wishes for one absurd moment that they never had to leave the ship, that they could stay here indefinitely.

 

***

 

Burr busies himself as much as he can as their final days ship-side head towards a close, takes on as much physical labor as he can find. He throws himself into it, works down in the storage area rearranging boxes. It’s sweaty, dusty work; he removes his shirt not long into the job. Filth streaks on his cheeks and chest, but it’s distracting, all-encompassing work, for when he’s lifting and sorting and piling he can’t do things like count the days (and the nights) that they have left here.

(Three days. Three nights.)

There’s a cough and Burr looks up, sees Higgins, watching. He wonders how long he’s been standing there.

“This is a pointless endeavor, you know,” Higgins says, “Seb will decide tomorrow he wants them done some other way.”

“I don’t mind,” Burr replies.

“Sure you wouldn’t rather be above deck, enjoying your last few days on the sea?”

“I think I’ve seen enough of the sea for a while.”

Higgins laughs.

“A fair point.”

“Am I needed somewhere else?”

Burr doesn’t mean to sound short, but the boxes are half-stacked, and his mind is ready to start up again, whirling with thoughts.

“Not that I know of, I was curious what you were up to.”

Higgins’s gaze drops then, takes in Burr’s dirt-streaked chest.

“You’re a bit of a mess, Aaron. Hope you’re planning to clean up before dinner. You look like we’ve been keeping you prisoner or something.”

Burr turns away, flushing, thinking about Hamilton’s unsaid accusations the other day, about _growing too close_. Ridiculous, of course.

“Need any help?” Higgins asks.

“I’m fine.”

“I’m sure you are, but I happen to know what some of these boxes weigh. At least let me help with those big ones.”

In the corner is the pile Burr’s been avoiding, cumbersome boxes piled heavy with ammunition.

He acquiesces.

“Just those. But you don’t have to help, really, I can get someone else --”

He’s protesting even as Higgins is walking towards the boxes, fingers wrapping around one end. Burr halts his protests, goes to the other end, and they lift it, move it across the room. Burr walks backward, cautiously weaving his way across the floor, but they set the box down without any fingers being crushed. There’s a dirt smudge on Higgins’s shirt already, and Burr nods to it.

“Now who’s a mess?”

Unbidden, he thinks of Hamilton in the cave, legs wrapped sticky around him, laughing: _we’re both messes_.

“I’ve had worse,” Higgins says, dry, already headed back to the next box. Burr considers suggesting Higgins do away with his shirt, as Burr had, but feels as if the comment might be misconstrued.

There’s maybe a dozen boxes in all, and ultimately Burr is grateful for the help, though he feels bad - by the end, Higgins is as disheveled as Burr is, though it shows more distinctly on Higgins, with his ponytail in disarray and shirt rumpled and filthy.

Higgins looks down at himself, and rather than be dismayed, he actually laughs.

“Haven’t gotten my hands dirty in a while,” he admits, “you’ve humbled me.”

Burr rolls his eyes.

“I think the whole point of being an admiral is not having to do the grunt work.”

“For some. I prefer the occasional reminder of where I came from.”

Burr waits for more - Higgins has revealed little of his life pre- _Wolverine_ but Higgins looks down at his now-filthy shirt, rubs at a stain idly.

“I suppose the crew’s rioted in my absence,” he says, finally, “I should go check on them.”

Burr almost wants him to stay, but he says nothing. There’s not enough air in the storage room, it feels cramped, stuffy, and he’s a bit out of breath from moving the boxes.

“Thanks again for the help,” he says.

“My pleasure.”

Higgins pauses, as if considering something else, but then moves up the stairs. Burr turns back to the smaller boxes, starts moving them, when he hears footsteps once more. Higgins again, he assumes.

“Did you forget something, or--?” he’s teasing, but he doesn’t finish the sentence because it’s not Higgins, it’s Hamilton, flying down the steps at much too fast a pace.

“Alex? You okay?”

Hamilton looks flushed, looks almost mad, and Burr can’t for the life of him figure out why.

Hamilton looks him up and down, noting the dirt streaks, the bare chest and still-heavy breathing.

“I saw Higgins coming out of here looking a wreck,” he says.

“Yeah, he was helping me move some boxes.”

Hamilton barks a laugh.

“I see how he dresses. That man wouldn’t know hard labor if it slapped him across the face.”

“You don’t know him.”

“Oh, and how well do you _know_ him?”

Weight presses on the word - _know_ \- and Burr thinks, _not like I know you_.

“Alex. John came down to say hi, offered to help move the ammunition boxes from one side to the other. You can go lift one yourself and tell me it’s not a two person job. I was grateful for the help.”

Hamilton glances over, noting - for the first time, Burr suspects - the changing layout of the room.

“I would have helped you,” he says, voice slightly petulant.

Burr sighs.

“I know. But John came by first, so I took him up on the offer. Why do you care so much?”

“I don’t,” Hamilton says, but the odd way he looks at Burr doesn’t change. He supposes Hamilton’s jealous - like a child who wants all the toys, he can be rich in friends, but heaven forbid Burr grow close to one man. 

“Okay then.”

Burr’s aware his own tone has grown sharp, but he’s tired, and Hamilton’s acting childish. At his tone Hamilton inches back towards the staircase, turns to go. He reaches his right hand up towards the crude railing, and Burr, out of habit, looks to his wrist. He notices Hamilton’s no longer wearing the bracelet Burr had made for him, and while this shouldn’t matter, the absence of it feels like a punch in the gut.

“See you at dinner.”

“See you.”

Burr finishes reorganizing the boxes with no further interruption, and does all he can to take his mind off of things. When he’s finished, he cleans up in the washroom as best he can, turning a white washcloth gray with dirt from his face and chest. He changes into a clean shirt, and deems himself almost presentable when he heads down to dinner.

 

***

 

Two days before they are set to arrive home the night comes in clouded and ominous, the sky in the distance studded with lightning and the low roll of thunder.

Although they go to bed as usual, they are awakened at some unknowable hour in the middle of the night to the men’s shouts as the ship lurches. Burr is reminded, sickeningly, of the hurricane; of how they’d lain there together in the dark while the ship pitched and yawed.

Burr turns over, careful, looks at Hamilton. Hamilton is curled, tight, breath short. It’s too dark for him to make out anything on Hamilton’s face, but he can imagine it well enough – the distant, broken gaze and the tight line of his lips.

“Hey,” Burr says, and touches Hamilton’s arm, “it’s all right.”

A peal of thunder rolls outside, and the ship pitches again. Burr strokes Hamilton’s arm, slow and deliberate motions, and after a while Hamilton’s body relaxes, just slightly, and Hamilton’s head turns.

“It’s not a hurricane,” Burr says in that same soothing tone, though of course he can’t tell a thunderstorm from a hurricane, especially not down here, helpless in the dark, “just a storm. It’ll pass.”

“Storms don’t bother me,” says Hamilton, and his cracked voice betrays the lie, “or, they didn’t. On land. But after…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence. Doesn’t have to – Burr was there; he can write that particular story as well as Hamilton can. _After the Pickering. After we almost died_.

“I know,” says Burr, “I know, Alex.”

He’s still stroking his shoulder, taking comfort as much as giving it. Hamilton’s other hand snakes up, finds his. For a moment the hands simply touch, but when the ship pitches again Hamilton grips his hand, too tight, but Burr doesn’t complain, grips Hamilton’s hand back as tight as he can. Their bones grind in the tightness of the grip, but Burr doesn’t mind, he continues to let Hamilton hold on to him as if he is a drowning man.

“Look,” he says, and leans down closer, to make sure every word is heard. This close, he can see the outline of Hamilton’s features.

“We’re gonna make it, you and I. We’re survivors.”

Hamilton’s grip loosens, just a little, and his thumb strokes over Burrs’.

“Survivors,” Hamilton repeats, then adds, “ _siempre_.”

Forever, always.

 

***

 

The morning comes, and save for the damp deck, it’s as if there was never a storm at all. Hamilton wakes bright-eyed and energetic, eager to help finalize their passage into New York harbor. Burr is less energetic, drained by the storm, by staying awake with Hamilton’s hand in his – it had only been comfort, sure, but that knowledge does nothing to dull the feeling in his chest.

_One more day_.

The final day passes in a sort of wild blur. Burr packs his few things, ties them in his old shirt. His fingers pass over the few shells he’d taken from the island, his own bracelet he’d made (but never worn). He adds his piece of rope he’d used to practice knots, then ties the sleeves of the shirt together. It’s still early afternoon, and he has nothing to do. The whole ship feels antsy, and Burr drifts from deck to kitchen to the office, never able to stay in one place for long, restless.

He’s in the office, trying to read, when Higgins walks in, sits next to him on the couch.

“We should come into the harbor early tomorrow morning.” he says. Nothing Burr doesn’t know. He puts the book down, leg jigging. He wants to move again.

“Are you nervous?”

“A little.”

Higgins takes a breath, seems to consider.

“If it’s not too forward of me, on shore, are you and Mr. Hamilton still…?”

Here’s the question, direct.

“Not exactly,” Burr says, then amends, “no.”

It feels final, and he wants to add something else, but he doesn't know what. The same way he couldn’t speak Eliza’s name, he can’t speak on his feelings. Because saying it makes it real.

“I see,” Higgins’s voice is soft, “and that wasn’t your choice.”

“I didn’t have a choice.”

The words shudder when he speaks them. The truth hurts, it aches in his bones.

“Oh, Aaron.”

It’s too kind, the words, and then Higgins has his arms wrapped around Burr and Burr is appalled to find himself fighting back _tears_ , of all things. Still, he leans into the embrace.

“He’s a fool,” Higgins says, hands moving idly over his back, soothing, “if you stayed, we could make you forget all about him. It’s not too late to just say fuck it.”

Burr pulls himself from the embrace. The meaning of Higgins’s words seems clear enough (and briefly - just briefly! - he thinks about it).

“And Mr. Trumbull?”

Higgins laughs.

“We share more than just a bed, you know.”

_Oh_.

“I’m afraid I still want to go home.”

Higgins fakes a sigh, but when he looks at Burr, his eyes are still concerned.

“As long as it’s for you, and not for him.”

Burr considers. He still isn’t sure what awaits him in America, but he knows he wants to return there.

“It’s for me.”

“Who am I to argue, then?”

Higgins grabs his hand, squeezes it, brief. Burr squeezes back, for just a moment, and then he lets go.

 

***

 

“This is the last night.”

Hamilton says it with something like awe, pressed against Burr, who should be sleeping. He isn’t, of course, his mind reeling, restless.

“The last night, Aaron. Tomorrow, we’ll be in our own beds.”

The thought makes Burr’s eyes sting, but he doesn’t let his voice betray such emotion.

“I’ll get to sleep without you thrashing for space.”

Hamilton chuckles, soft.

“I got used to your snoring. I’m sure my thrashing isn't so bad.”

A pause.

“I’ll miss it, though,” Hamilton says, “I’ve never liked sleeping alone. Never had to do it, much.”

Burr’s sure of that. Hamilton’s had a parade of women to keep his bed warm.

“You’ll get by.”

“Aaron.”

“Yes?”

“I’ll miss you.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“You know what I mean. _You_.”

Burr does.

“It’ll be weird.”

This apparently isn’t the response Hamilton wants, because he goes quiet, and Burr thinks he’s fallen asleep until Hamilton shifts, turns, and then his arm is over him, Hamilton pressed closer.

“Goodnight, Aaron.”

“Goodnight, Alex.”

He waits for Hamilton to turn back over, his message delivered. But he doesn’t, and Burr is glad for it, glad that the last night is spent with Hamilton’s arm over him. He stays awake most of the night, savoring the feeling, the lull of Hamilton’s breath on his neck, the subtle shifts of his body, and yes, Burr has gotten used to the thrashing, he’s gotten all too used to this.

“I’ll miss you too,” he says, a low whisper, barely audible at all, though Hamilton has long ago fallen asleep.

 

***

 

The sun has barely crept over the horizon when the cry rings out: _land ahoy!_

The city materializes through the mists, distant at first, then coming into a sharper view. Hamilton’s hand finds his for just a moment and they grip one another as their home looms closer, brighter.

The entrance into the harbor seems to take both forever and no time at all, soon the _Wolverine_ is inching toward the dock and Burr looks out, blinking, and is overwhelmed with déjà vu because there’s Washington on the deck, Washington and a whole group of other men, standing and waving as they drop anchor. Hamilton releases his hand to wave back, shouting wildly, and Burr waves too, aware he’s grinning like an idiot.

The gangplank hits the dock and they wait for Trumbull and Higgins to descend first, Hamilton practically bouncing beside him. When it’s their turn, Hamilton all but runs down the gangplank, rushes towards Washington. Burr follows at his own clip, watches as Hamilton pauses before Washington, considering for just a split second before pulling the General into a hug, which Washington returns. When they finally untangle, Washington looks at Burr, nods, shakes his hand, but when Burr looks up, Washington is smiling at him, for quite possibly the first time ever.

“Welcome home,” Washington says, and his voice sounds thick, like he’s holding back tears, a sight Burr would never have imagined he’d ever bear witness to in his life. Washington puts a hand on Hamilton’s shoulder, regards him for a moment, then hugs him again, this time on his own initiation, and Burr hears him say _god, you must have been so scared_.

 

***

 

There is a meeting, stiff and formal, attended by Burr, Hamilton, Washington, Higgins, and Trumbull to finish payment. Burr had relinquished his salvage from his share of Mr. Hopwood’s dues, and he pays the difference gladly.

“I feel almost bad, taking money from you,” says Higgins as the debts are finalized.

“Not bad enough to stop,” Burr observes.

Higgins laughs.

“Never.”

It doesn’t take long, and then they are back on the docks, ready to say goodbye. Burr had hoped they might stay at least a night or two, but Higgins had insisted to do so would be to overstay their welcome.

Trumbull departs with a few handshakes and a nod and then he’s back on the ship, readying the men for departure. Higgins takes longer. He shakes Hamilton’s hand, smiling in spite of Hamilton’s stormy gaze. Burr, he hugs, tight, and keeps his mouth to Burr’s ear.

“Last chance, Aaron,” he says, hair brushing against Burr’s face, and Burr laughs.

“Still no, John.”

“Can’t win ‘em all,” says Higgins as he draws back. He makes one final bow towards their small group, and then he, too, is up the gangplank and on the ship, and there are shouts as the men pull up the anchor. They stay and watch as the ship departs, and Burr feels as if a piece of himself is sailing off with it. Soon the ship is little more than an outline, and then it’s gone completely.

They return to Washington’s office, a smaller group, now.

“I expect you’re both overwhelmed,” Washington says, but Burr feels less overwhelmed and more _numb_ , distant, as if he’s somewhere far away, watching himself go through these motions.

He’s aware that Hamilton and Washington are talking, and he tries to look engaged, nodding along, but he’s looking at them without seeing them, the words flowing over him like river-water over rocks.

The men are standing, then, so Burr stands with him. Washington hugs Hamilton goodbye again, and when Burr offers a hand Washington ignores it and hugs him, too, and Burr almost laughs at the absurdity of it. Washington goes out the door and it’s just him and Hamilton.

“Well,” says Hamilton, “I’ll be staying with Washington tonight, until I can find a place. He said there’s room for you, too, if you need a place to stay…”

“No,” Burr says, “Sally was still in possession of my home. Fortunately she didn’t sell it.”

“Guess it’s goodbye, then.”

“I guess so.”

For a moment neither of them move, and then Hamilton flings his arms around him, and Burr hugs him back. They stay like this for too long – though it still feels like a blink to Burr – and then Hamilton finally moves, untangles himself, and goes down the road after Washington.

Burr makes his way to his house slowly, carrying his meager bundle of possessions. The house is locked when he arrives – of course – but he finds the key under a rock.

The house feels huge and empty when he walks in. The few pieces of furniture left are covered in white sheets, and every surface is coated in dust. He sets his bundle of possessions on the table and it spills open, one of the shells rolling out. He looks at it, the contrast of white against the dark wood on the table, and wonders if he was a fool for not taking Higgins up on his offer to stay at sea.

(And maybe his other offers, too.)

His mattress is bare but Burr couldn’t care less. It’s only midafternoon, but he strips off his boots, pauses, then strips off the rest of his clothes as well, since he’s the only person here. He crawls on to the mattress, and there he crashes, falling into a deep and dreamless sleep.

 

***

 

He wakes, disoriented and alone, some hours later – it’s gone dark outside, but Burr has no idea if it’s evening or midnight. He feels his way to the nightstand, fumbles to light the candle there. The light it casts is small and watery, but it helps solidify him to his surroundings.

It should feel like home, but instead Burr feels as if he is occupying the home of a dead man. He supposes that in many ways he is, for the Aaron Burr who left this home a year ago is not the same man who returned to it; indeed, he suspects those two men might not so much as recognize one another, were they to meet.

He touches his fingers to his leg, the dent there; then to his arm and the still-healing wound. The pieces of himself left scattered on the island and the ship.

(And another piece too – the one Hamilton has, the one Burr had not intended to give.)

The house is too quiet, with only his own sounds to fill it. He has forgotten how to be alone.

He finds paper and quill, moves the candle from his nightstand to his desk. He pens another letter to Sally, letters to his few acquaintances, until here’s one important name left: Theodosia.

He owes her a letter, a visit – she’ll likely have heard of their return, the two men come back from the dead.

_Dear Theodosia_ , he writes, _what to say to you?_

He tells the story – albeit with many details omitted, and finishes with _I apologize for not writing to you sooner._

The apology rings hollow, but it’s all he has. He’ll hand-deliver it to her soon, he supposes. And who knows? Maybe seeing her again will rekindle something; will distract him from the other face that comes to mind.

He signs his name with a flourish.

 

***

 

He goes several days without seeing Hamilton (or calling on Theodosia, though he’d promised himself he would). Instead, he shops, restocks his pantry, buys new clothes, boots that actually fit. He cleans, too, scrubs every surface of the house until every speck of dust is gone. It’s the same laborious work he’d done on the ship, with the same distracting qualities. He receives a letter from Sally, expressing her delight at his miraculous return and inviting him upstate to visit her. He sleeps alone and pretends it doesn’t bother him.

He’s rearranging his desk when he hears the knocking – several raps, sharp and crowded. He opens the door to find Hamilton, who is dressed in an impeccable new coat and tight breeches that make Burr’s throat a little dry.

“Hello, Alex.”

“You’ve been a fucking hermit, Aaron,” Hamilton says, rather than a normal human greeting. But before Burr can be perturbed Hamilton embraces him and thumps him on the back, and Burr is overwhelmed with the smell of him.

“Come in, then,” he says, though Hamilton is already making his way inside.

Burr hasn’t even sat down before Hamilton’s talking, filling him in on what they’ve missed.

“Aaron, it’s worse than we ever thought. He sent _Thomas fucking Jefferson_ to France once we were presumed dead, can you believe it? Jefferson! What the fuck, Aaron? How is that guy going to be a good representative? He’s a fucking nutjob!”

“Yes, well. I suppose Washington thought he was qualified.”

Hamilton scoffs.

“More like he’s the only one stupid enough to go after what happened to us.”

Hamilton sighs.

“Sorry. That’s not why I came here. I came here because I have a proposal for you.”

“Oh?”

“Back on the _Wolverine_ , you said you wanted to go into business as a lawyer.”

“Yes.”

“Do you still intend to?”

“Yes.”

“Perfect. I’ve asked around, there’s an office space for rent not far from here, it’ll be perfect for us.”

“For us?”

“Yes, Aaron. I’m also going into practice. It’d be stupid not to work together. We’re a good team, right?”

For the first time Hamilton’s voice wavers. Like he’s afraid Burr’s changed him mind.

“No, no, we are. I just – I didn’t know how much you’d want to do with me once we got back.”

Hamilton rolls his eyes.  
“I told you you’re my closest friend, right? And we get along. We work well together, balance one another out. Sometimes you even have good ideas. We’d be a killer team.”

He smiles at Burr, that same dizzying smile Burr recalls from the island. The kind that’s almost to brilliant to look at, and Burr knows he never had a choice.

“So?” Hamilton’s looking inquisitive now, “what do you say, Aaron?”

“Let’s do it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Act II.  
> (Act III: _America_ )
> 
> Read Hamilton's POV about seeing Higgins & Burr together [here](http://thinksideways.tumblr.com/post/171494756461/for-the-writing-meme-pov-because-that-last-one-was)
> 
> notes:  
> \- There's a reference to LMM's Drunk History episode in there, if you squint.  
> \- S/O to an anon commenter ("Hihihi") for saying "I can imagine Washington hugging Alexander and being all like, "YOU MUST HAVE BEEN SO SCARED," because I totally stole and used that.  
> \- Jefferson didn't actually go to France until 1785 or something, but really, that's about to be the last of our "correct history" worries.  
> \- I don't actually have any other notes so let me share that this weekend I tested for, and passed, my krav maga brown belt, which was a Huge Fucking Deal for me and I got punched in the face a lot. This is mildly relevant because not having to train every fucking night also gave me time to write this, so.
> 
> anyway this fic has hit 50k which was my original goal for...the entire thing, so I'm pretty proud and terrified of that.
> 
> and, as always: thank you guys. you're the best.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agreeing to go into business as law partners with Alexander Hamilton was one thing, actually doing so was another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey I'm ALIVE and so is this....thing

 

The morning ends on a good note, with Hamilton rattling off locations of offices they would tour, talking about plans for their business. Hamilton’s just getting wound up when he looks at his watch, realizes what time it is.

“Shit,” he says, “I have to meet Washington. We’ll talk later?”

“Sure,” Burr agrees, and sees Hamilton to the door.

He sits back down at the kitchen table and stares at it for far too long, memorizing every inch of the woodgrain.

 _This will work_ , he tells himself, _this will work_.

Sure, a year ago Burr would have laughed at the mere idea of going into business with Hamilton – but now, it has the potential to work out. He knows so much more about Hamilton now, knows how to interact with him, has found the strength in the things he previously perceived as annoyances. They balance each other, in a strange way.

So what if Hamilton wouldn't know a concise argument if it slapped him across the face? So what if Burr still thinks about Hamilton in all kinds of ways he shouldn’t?

They’re smart. They're both good lawyers. It will definitely, absolutely work.

“I've made a huge mistake,” Burr says to the empty kitchen, and puts his head in his hands.

 

***

 

The next day, he goes to see Theodosia. It's a long overdue visit, and as he walks the route to her house his stomach is all twisted in knots. It's guilt he feels, more than anything else. He’d intended to call upon her much sooner, should have, by all rights, but he’d put it off, and put it off again, never knowing what to say. He still doesn't, not really, although on the walk over he rehearses a few disjointed sentences in his head, all of them beginning with _I'm sorry, I'm so sorry_.

He realizes when he’s halfway there that he forgot the letter he wrote her, left it sitting unopened and unread somewhere in his living room. He considers going back for it, but knows if he does, he’ll lose his nerve. Again.

He walks past the house twice, each time turning and retracing his steps before he could make it to the door. Finally, he grits his teeth, inhales one short, sharp, breath, and walks up to her door, where he promptly loses his nerve and stands there. It’s for no longer than a minute, but it feels like an eternity. Inhaling again he knocks – finally – and only manages one short rap before the door swings open, and there is Theodosia.

Looking at her, he feels the dull, aching pain of nostalgia. There is a part of him that still loves her, a part of him that wishes desperately he could go back to her, back to the way things were. However, a larger part of him knows the unfairness of that, knows that the man who stands before her now is not the same man who left her a year ago. Besides, even that consideration – fleeting as it is – would be dependent on her wanting anything to do with him, which he doubts she would, now, after he’d not only left her but _died_ on her, then waited almost two weeks before showing back up on her doorstep.

“Well,” she says, and her tone is even, impenetrable, “if it isn't Aaron Burr.”

“Theo--” he begins, but before he can even finish her name she has cut him off.

“I heard he died at sea,” she says, and though her voice still sounds nonchalant, her eyes are hard, glittering like gemstones, and focused intently on a spot beyond Burr, “there had been rumors of his return, but I figured they were only that – rumors. Because surely if Aaron Burr had returned from the dead, he would've paid me a visit much sooner. So I can only assume that you are some sort of ghost come to haunt me.”

The fact that he deserves every word of it does not make the cold gravity of her tone any easier, but Burr bears it, unflinching, head down. He owes her that much, at least.

“Theodosia,” he says, and she lets him say her full name this time, so he continues on, “I'm sorry. I'm so, so, sorry. I didn't – I didn't know what to do, or what to say, or if you'd even want to see my face. I wasn't sure, because of how we left things…” he trails off, remembering her words: _I make no promises to wait_. And he hopes she didn’t – really, he does – because although he may have wanted them to be a lie back then, now all he really wants is for her to be happy. At least, that’s what he tells himself, and if he says it enough, he hopes it will be true.

“I'm alive,” he says – stating the obvious – and spreads his arms wide, “and here, in all my dubious glory.”

He’s hoping to eke a smile from her, and it works, mostly, for he notices the corners of her mouth pulling into the slightest smile.

“And I'm glad,” she says, then seems to consider, “I guess.”

With that, she steps forward and embraces him, her strong arms wrapped around him. For a moment Burr remains taut, and then he relaxes, wraps his own arms around her familiar frame.

“Tell me, Mr. Burr,” she begins, and Burr cannot tell if she is using such official appellations out of playfulness or out of the still-cautious formality and has manifested between them, “do tell me how you came to be that way. I'll put the kettle on.”

He sits at the familiar kitchen table, watching her move about the kitchen, setting water to boil atop the stove.

“So,” she says, handing him a mug of tea, sitting down across from him, “tell me the story.”

He does.

He omits much of it, of course, but he tells her enough – Preble’s treachery, the storm, the lifeboat. He perhaps spends a bit too long waxing poetic on Hamilton’s aptitude for island survival – how they fished, how he knew which plants were edible – but soon enough he’s telling her of the rescue, though much of this he also glosses over.

When he’s done, he looks at her. She’s leaned back in her chair, her empty mug on the table in front of her. She’s not looking at him, is instead looking up at the ceiling.

“A lovely tale,” she says, “though parts are clearly missing in your telling.”

Burr forgets how damn _perceptive_ she is. How smart. Some of the many reasons he’d loved her as he had.

Instead, he asks – dreading the question – on her affairs.

“And how have you been?” he says, though the question feels too light, as if they’re old acquaintances passing one another on the street.

She leans forward again, looks at him.

“Well,” she says, “Jacques died.”

She says it idly, as if it was something that had happened to a distant relative.

“I'm sorry--” he begins, but she cuts him off

“No you’re not,” she says, “you wanted him dead.”

He says nothing. He can’t argue the point.

“Funny, really,” she continues, in the kind of tone that suggests it wasn’t funny at all, “he was dead before you left. I got the letter not a week after you were gone. Shortly before I heard of your death, actually.”

She looks at him, seeming to want a reaction. He doesn’t know what to give her. She sighs, and continues on.

“I married again. Another soldier. I really do have a type, don’t I? His name is Isaac.”

Burr cannot quite decide if he is glad for her, or jealous. He knows which one he should be.

 _It would have been me_ , he thinks, _if I had stayed. It would have been me._

He is trying to think of what to say when they're interrupted by the sound of crying from another room. Not a child's cry, but the hungry, insistent squall of a baby.

“Ah,” Theodosia says, lips quirked in a half-smile, “duty calls. It was good to see you, Aaron, really.”

Burr isn’t sure who she’s trying to convince, and while he’s still trying to make up his mind, she’s ushered him out the door.

As he walks home, he tries to put the visit and its awkward air out of his head. He had done what was right – albeit many days too late – and now he can move on. Theodosia is married – with a new baby, at that – and there is no longer a place for him in her life, except perhaps as a friend, assuming she would even want that.

He’s the one who left, after all.

He comes home to find a letter tacked to his door, a missive from Hamilton, informing him that he’s arranged tours of several vacated buildings, and that Hamilton will be by bright and early tomorrow so that they can visit them together. The thought of a new office is a welcome distraction, and Burr does his best to think of his new career instead of his old lover – or lover _s_ , depending on one how defines the word.

 

***

 

In a turn of events that shocked exactly no one except for the two parties directly involved, it was quickly discovered that Burr and Hamilton had shockingly different aesthetics.

This comes to a head when they begin to tour the various offices for rent. Burr quickly finds one he likes, a straightforward office that was renting for a reasonable price and was close to both of their houses. The building itself is not the finest, the walls painted a plain white that's peeling high up, near the ceiling, but the structure was sound. Hamilton, however, had a much different idea of what he wanted in an office, which is why they’re arguing now.

“For the hundredth time,” Burr grits, though it really feels more like the thousandth time they’ve had this argument, “we are not paying an extra $20 a month just because it has mahogany.”

“It will impress the clients,” Hamilton says, his voice insistent and wheedling.

“It will impress us right into the poorhouse,” Burr says.

“You have no sense of style.”

“And you have no sense.”

It’s an argument Burr wins, surprisingly, although only after he sits Hamilton down to create a budget and it’s laid out on paper how much they have. Even the office Burr prefers will be a stretch, until they begin to bring in clients.

“Fine,” Hamilton says, conceding, staring at the budget they’ve created, “but we’re painting. And I get to choose the color.”

“By all means.”

It goes quickly after that – Hamilton negotiates the landlord down on the rent – and in what seems like a blink there’s a set of keys pressed into Burr’s palm. The keys to his office. _Their_ office.

 

***

 

They meet up that weekend to paint, the office deserted on a Sunday. Burr’s tired – he’d slept poorly the night before, his sleep fitful and full of dreams he couldn’t remember upon waking – and not looking forward to a day spent inhaling paint fumes. He’d suggested they hire someone to do it, but Hamilton – now suddenly so concerned about _budgets_ – pointed out it’d be cheaper to do it themselves.

Burr lets them into the office, and Hamilton sets down the paint buckets with a _thud_. The color Hamilton had picked for the walls is a soft fawn brown, a color that seems to lighten when looked at one way and deepen when looked at another. Burr’s afraid it’ll make the room seem too dark, but he doesn’t bring up the concern – Hamilton had conceded to Burr’s choice of building, after all.

Burr picks up a brush and dips it into the paint, begins painting at a random place on the wall. He moves the brush in broad strokes, covered the yellowed white it had been. Hamilton does the same, begins painting near Burr.

“So,” Hamilton says, though when Burr glances over, Hamilton isn’t looking at him, is instead focused on the wall, on the movement of his brush.

“Have you spoken to Theodosia?”

Burr dips his brush back into the paint.

“I called on her a few days ago--”

“You waited _that_ long?”

Burr flinches.

“Yes. I didn’t know what to say.”

“Well?”

“ _Well_ , maybe don’t interrupt--”

“Sorry,” interrupts Hamilton, “sorry, sorry.”

“As I was saying, I called upon her a few days ago. Apologized profusely. She was a little cool to me, but that’s to be expected. She’s doing well, though. Her husband died – right before we left, actually – and she remarried. Even has a new baby.”

It still feels odd to say, Burr’s still trying to say it without sounding strange. He’s not quite jealous, but he’s wistful, in a way, like he’s viewing some other world he could have visited, had he made different choices.

“And…?” Hamilton prompts.

“And what? End of story. She’s doing well, and I’m happy for her.”

“Aaron. When did she remarry?”

“I didn’t ask.”

“And the baby? Boy or girl? How old?”

“Didn’t see it, didn’t ask.”

“ _Aaron_.”

“What?”

Burr’s cross, now. They’ve both stopped painting.

“Do you think it’s yours?”

“Think what’s mine?”

“The baby, you moron.”

“What? No, of course not. She would have told me.”

Burr hadn’t even considered it. He and Theodosia had talked, in a roundabout way, about children – her saying _you’re so good with the children_ and him replying _I can’t wait for my own_. But she’d have _told_ him.

Wouldn’t she?

“Are you sure--”

Hamilton is prodding but Burr feels uneasy, agitated.

“Drop it. Please.”

Hamilton finds something in his tone to make him listen, because he does. He changes the subject, and they talk instead of how to best advertise their services, how to woo clients, and soon enough have half the office painted.

There is still an elephant in the room, of course (there’s several, really, a whole herd of them). Hamilton hadn’t hesitated when asking about Theodosia, but Burr lacks that particular boldness, instead phrases and rephrases the question over and over again in his mind as he paints. _Eliza_. He had asked around, a little bit, but had found out nothing concrete about the Schuyler sisters – though really, one in particular - and what their current state was.

“So,” Burr begins, unaware he’s echoing Hamilton. All he figures is that Hamilton opened the door to this line of questioning.

“Did you call upon Eliza?” Burr asks, and hopes his voice doesn’t sound too shaky, doesn’t betray the nervousness that feasts on his insides. He’s thought of this relentlessly (the mind, a traitorous thing), but he still isn’t sure he wants an answer to it.

“I did,” says Hamilton, his voice short, resigned. Burr waits. And waits. Finally, he’s about to open his mouth, prompt Hamilton, but then Hamilton soldiers on.

“Well,” he says, “I tried, anyway. I went to the house. And there…” he trails off, eyes fixed to a spot on the wall, a place where the paint has bubbled.

“I was told that she was married,” he says, “and that she lit off for London with her lovely new husband.”

“I’m sorry,” Burr begins, but Hamilton doesn’t seem to acknowledge it, continues on.

“Fucking _married_ ,” he spits, the words bitter and savage, then, softer, hurt, he says, “I love her. Loved her."

Burr feels those words – _I love her_ – like a knife, twisting in him, the serrated-edge truth of it tearing across every valve and ventricle. Distantly, Hamilton is still talking --

“Despite the issues, despite what her family said – I loved her, Aaron. I was going to marry her. And I thought – I don’t know what I thought, I guess I just thought that she would be here, that she would wait for me, that we’d still get married. It was my plan. I don’t know – I don’t know what I’m gonna do now.”

Hamilton inhales, taking in a shuddery breath.

“I had it worked out. It was going to be okay. Now…”

Burr gets the sense Hamilton is no longer exactly talking to him, that what he’s hearing is some inner monologue of Hamilton, a thing bared. And it is odd – _it was my plan, I had it worked out_ – seem almost like something else, a nod to a thing unmentioned, but Burr doesn’t know.

It’s all just another thing they share, Burr supposes – they love women who belong to others.

It’s Burr’s turn now, to distract, to turn the conversation to lighter things, to their business, their plans. It works, mostly – there is no more talk of Theodosia, or Eliza – but there is still something in Hamilton’s mannerisms, something ill-defined that seems to bleed over everything.

 

***

 

By the time they finish painting it’s dark, and Burr feels lightheaded from inhaling noxious fumes most of the day. There are splotches of paint all over him. Burr’s curious to see how it will look in the daylight – he’s still not entirely sold on the color – but it looks well enough in dim lantern-light. They still need furniture, all the room has now are two desks and two chairs – don’t even have a place for clients to sit, yet - but those things will come.

They walk out into the night together. Hamilton stretches, catlike, and Burr hears the dim popping of his joints.

“God, that took forever,” says Hamilton, rolling his head, eliciting more pops.

“It was your idea to paint,” Burr reminds him, pointedly.

“I know, I know, I just underestimated the room’s size and our painting efficacy. It’ll look good, though. We’ll make the place look halfway decent yet. Get a couch, some art, a rug – maybe a plant…oh! What time is it?”

Burr glances down at his watch.

“Almost eight.”

“No wonder I’m starving. Want to grab dinner? Queen’s Head is right around the corner.”

“Assuming they’ll let us in.”

“Yeah, you’re a mess.”

“We’re both messes.”

A slip of the tongue, an incidental callback – and Hamilton tenses at Burr’s response and Burr berates himself. He thinks to apologize, but says nothing and instead walks on to the tavern. It’s awkward, for a moment, but it’s a short walk and soon they can smell something delicious wafting from the tavern.

“God, after this week, I need a drink,” Hamilton says, and Burr agrees.

The weirdness dissipates as the beer flows, and Burr realizes last time they’d been in this tavern together they’d practically been strangers. He brings this up to Hamilton, who smiles.

“ _God_ , it feels like forever ago, doesn’t it? I was so convinced you hated me…”

“More like I was confused by you.”

Hamilton laughs.

“Feeling’s mutual, Aaron. You were so stiff. Though by the end of the night….”

“As if you remember it.”

Not that Burr recalls it well, either. Remembers it in pieces – talking in French, ordering another round, stumbling into Hamilton when he tried to get up from the table. It’s a miracle they hadn’t been kicked out of the bar. Or hell, maybe they had, and Burr just can’t remember.

They order several rounds. It’s the third – maybe the forth – when Hamilton makes the toast.

“To Theodosia. And Eliza. May they be happy.”

Burr clinks his glass against Hamilton’s.

“May they be happy,” he echoes.

Foam spills down Hamilton’s wrist as his moves his glass too quickly, he sets the drink down and licks it off, and the movement of Hamilton’s tongue makes Burr flush hot.

“You’ve still got paint on you. That’s probably horribly dangerous.”

Hamilton meets Burr’s eyes as his tongue deliberately traces a trail up his wrist and comes off with a flick.

“I thrive on danger.”

Burr rolls his eyes, takes a sip of his own beer, tries not to imagine how it would taste being licked off of Hamilton’s body. These thoughts open a floodgate – he’d done well, lately, to put such thoughts aside, keep them under lock and key. Particular memories did make themselves known at certain times, of course, but mostly Burr had gone through his weeks not pining, or craving the impossible. But with Hamilton here in the flesh, it’s much harder (so to speak), especially when Hamilton’s doing such obscene things, practically _baiting_ Burr.

 

***

 

There’s more rounds, and soon Burr is drunk, which is infinitely more dangerous than it once was, as the alcohol has a way of picking at the locks he’s put up in his mind, sets loose his wants and desires. Hamilton’s drunk too, which only makes him more lurid. They finally rise to go, and Hamilton insists on walking Burr home.

“I’ll protect you from thieves,” Hamilton says, words soft from the drink, offering this as justification. Burr laughs – it’s not that funny, but it is when the number of beers you’ve consumed hits the double digits – and gives in.

They’re not far from the tavern when Hamilton slings an arm over his shoulders, a warm and heavy weight, and Burr remembers how Hamilton had supported him when he was injured, taking those first hesitant steps out of the cave, how he had insisted on bearing Burr’s weight. Burr rotates in – just slightly – and the contact increases. He suddenly wants the walk home to last forever.

They’re at Burr’s doorstep in no time, but Burr delays in opening the door, and when he finally does he fumbles the keys, drops them and has to crouch to pick them up, losing the warmth of Hamilton’s arm.

“See?” Hamilton says as Burr unlocks the door, “safe from thieves. Like I promised.”

“My savior,” Burr responds, dry, and Hamilton bursts into laughter and soon Burr is laughing, too.

Hamilton has invited himself in, sits now at Burr’s kitchen table.

“Let me rest a minute,” he says, “then I’ll go home.”

Burr gets them both water – they need it – then sits down across from him.

“It’s weird,” Hamilton says.

“What’s weird?” Burr asks, though truth be told, he agrees even without knowing the specificity. Everything’s weird.

“Being home. Seeing how the world continued on without me. And I know that sounds arrogant, but…I was making a difference, and then I left – I disappeared – and they kept going without me. Eliza, Washington, everybody.”

Burr knows what he means. Hamilton continues on.

“And I’m happy, to be home, and I’m integrating myself again, but god, Aaron, sometimes I just _miss_ the island. Is that ridiculous?”

Burr swallows. His throat feels like a desert.

“No,” he says – he’s cautious, so cautious, “I know what you mean. Sometimes I miss it too.”

Hamilton’s hand lifts off the table for a moment, the fingers curling in, and then he withdraws it, puts it back into his lap.

“I should be going.”

“Are you sure you’re okay to get home?” Burr asks, though the alternative – Hamilton staying here – seems too dangerous.

“I’m fine. Thanks for listening to me.”

“Anytime, Alex.”

Hamilton swigs the last of his water, then rises up from the chair. He hugs Burr, briefly, and then Burr is left at the doorstep as he watches Hamilton disappear into the night, thinking, _I should have asked him to stay_.

 

***

 

In the following weeks, their office is slowly transformed into a habitable space. Turns out, Hamilton was right – the color he picked out does look lovely, gives the room a richness Burr had not imagined.

(“It looks almost like mahogany,” he’d said when Hamilton first revealed the room to him in daylight, and had laughed when Hamilton punched his shoulder.)

Hamilton brings in a rather lovely couch that Burr suspects is a gift from Washington. Burr adds a rug from his own house. The place eventually looks almost professional.

There is, inevitably, an argument about whose name will be listed first. Burr has the alphabet on his side, while Hamilton has his ability to argue relentlessly and passionately, which wins, in the end, and when the sign goes up it reads: _Hamilton & Burr_.

There are a few clients, but it’s mostly legal advice, assistance in drawing up documents and the like. It’s slow, and tedious, and Burr begins to wonder why what had even drawn him to this profession in the first place.

It’s another slow day, Hamilton making his fiftieth round of edits to a client’s will, and Burr paging idly through the day’s newspaper, when the door swings open and in walks a man. He’s unassuming, of an average height and build, but Burr reads _money_ in every stich of clothing and his interest is quickly piqued. Burr rises, and shakes his hand, and Hamilton follows suit.

“Hello,” says the man, “I’m Ezra Weeks. I’ve come to inquire about your services on behalf of my brother.”

“What services does his require?”

“A good legal defense team, I’m afraid. My poor Levi was accused of murder, and will be going to trial.”

Burr can feel Hamilton tense beside him. Burr’s tense too, the significance of what Weeks is asking setting in, but he tries to school his expression, keep himself neutral, calm.

“I’m sorry to hear that, but we would be honored to defend your brother. We’ll set up a meeting as soon as possible to meet with him and gather all the details of the case.”

“Indeed,” concurs Hamilton, “now, Ezra, we’re thrilled you’ve come to us – albeit sorry about the circumstances – now, if we could just discuss our fee….”

Hamilton takes Weeks by the arm, guides him to his desk. Burr is glad to be left out of that conversation – discussing money always feels strange to him, slightly distasteful, but Hamilton has no issue with it.

Weeks isn’t there for long, and thanks them again on his way out, shaking hands again. The door closes behind him, and Burr waits a reasonable amount of time – maybe thirty seconds – before letting the grin crack open on his face, turning to Hamilton, who wears a ridiculous grin of his own.

“A fucking murder trial,” Hamilton says, awed, “the first of the new nation.”

“This is huge,” Burr says.

“This is it. This is what we’ve needed.”

Hamilton embraces him, thumping him on the back, and Burr feels a moment of guilt for celebrating someone’s murder in this way – it’s macabre, really – but he can’t help it. It’s the break they’ve been waiting for; the one Burr had begun to doubt would ever come.

They spend the afternoon discussing what little they know of the case. The story had peppered the news, detailing the body recovered from the Manhattan Well, but hadn’t gone into much detail behind the arrest, had certainly not mentioned any evidence.

They walk to the post office together after work. Burr has a handful of letters waiting for him; Hamilton has almost more than he can carry, cradling them against his chest with both hands like they were children.

“See you tomorrow, Aaron.”

“See you tomorrow.”

 

***

 

Burr flips briefly through the envelopes on his walk home – another letter from Sally, several from old friends at Princeton (to whom Burr hadn’t spoken in years). A couple of the envelopes are unmarked. Burr gets home and throws the envelopes on to the table, sets about to making dinner. It’s become a routine of sorts – come home, make dinner, tidy up, then settle in with a glass of wine and read through his mail (or a book, if it’s not a post day).

He’s off his game tonight though, still thrumming with energy from their earlier call with Ezra Weeks. He almost catches his sleeve on fire trying to cook, and then spills the first glass of wine he sets on the table, the red liquid staining the edges of some of his –

“Shit!” he says, grabbing at the mail pile. The damage is minimal, but he takes it into the living room, spreads it out to dry, when there’s the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen.

His spilled wine glass has rolled off the table, shattered, and Burr curses again as he searches for the broom and dustpan, tries to sweep up the shards of glass. His bare foot finds a piece he missed, though – another round of cursing – and then Burr’s in the washroom, needle in hand, trying to dig out the piece of glass embedded in his foot.

By the time the ordeal ends he’s entirely exhausted and his foot’s throbbing, his former good mood gone. He undresses and sinks into bed, finally, and drops off almost immediately –

Only to be awakened a few hours later by a pounding at the door.

Burr blinks, bleary-eyed, shuffles to the front door, trying to wake up, to figure out who it could be at this hour.

Foolish question, it turns out, because when he opens the door _of course_ it’s Hamilton.

And while there’s much Burr would have given on some nights to have Hamilton appear on his doorstep, while he’s even imagined these scenarios and where such an act would lead, it’s never like this, because the Hamilton on his doorstep tonight is a Hamilton wrecked.

“Aaron--” Hamilton says, and the word is hoarse, like he’s been screaming, “I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to go.”

“Come in,” Burr says dumbly, steps aside, sets his lantern down. Hamilton’s eyes are red-rimmed, and there’s an ugly shine to his cheeks, and Burr realizes the man had been crying.

“What happened?” he asks, soft now, concerned – was he hurt? But Hamilton seems to be in fair health, he’s upright, there’s no blood –

“It’s John,” Hamilton says, and Burr thinks first of John Higgins and wonders why Hamilton’s crying over _Higgins_ , of all people, and then –

“Laurens. John Laurens. I received a letter--” Hamilton inhales, ragged, “he was killed in battle. Shot off his horse.”

 _Oh_.

Burr didn’t know Laurens particularly well, but Hamilton had spoken fondly of him in their past conversations, and he knew they had written to one another frequently.

“Alex, I’m so sorry,” he says.

It’s an awful sight to behold, Hamilton before him, grief-stricken. Burr notices the letter clutched in Hamilton’s fist, wrinkled, the ink smudging his knuckles. Carefully, Burr pulls at it, and Hamilton releases it, looks down dazedly at his hand like he hadn’t realized he’d been clutching it at all. Instead, he looks at his ink-blackened palm like it’s a thing he’s never seen before.

“The news of his death writ upon me,” Hamilton says, and it’s weird and haunting and Burr doesn’t know what to _do_ , he’s never been good at giving comfort.

He does the only thing he can think of, the thing that doesn’t require speaking – he takes Hamilton into his arms, holds him tight. He feels Hamilton’s arms wrap around his middle, and there in his embrace Hamilton’s shoulders shake with grief, and Burr feels wet heat bloom on his shoulder in the place where Hamilton’s head rests. They stay like that for an indeterminate amount of time that at once feels to Burr like a minute and an hour both. Finally, Hamilton draws away, rubs the heel of his hand against his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “can I stay here tonight? I don’t want to be alone.”

“Of course,” Burr says.

There’s a guest bed, but it’s unmade, and Burr hadn’t gotten around to buying sheets for it. Besides, he doesn’t want Hamilton separated from him in his state, so instead he takes them both to his bedroom, arm around Hamilton’s shoulders. Hamilton takes off his boots but nothing else, collapses backward on to the bed. Burr crawls in beside him, and wraps an arm around him.

Horrible, how much Burr has wanted this – but never under circumstances such as these.

“I wrote to him,” Hamilton says, his voice still ragged, “he was so happy to hear that I was still alive.”

Hamilton barks a laugh, a thick, humorless sound.

“He was going to make his way back, come visit, come _celebrate_. The war was already over.”

“I’m sorry,” Burr says – again – for there’s nothing else he can say.

“I loved him,” Hamilton says, and the way he says it matches the way he’d spoken of Eliza, earlier. Burr says nothing, and neither does Hamilton, like he’d already said too much.

 _I loved him_.

Burr drifts to sleep, eventually, wakes once when Hamilton cries out in the night, pulls himself closer. Hamilton’s hand finds his and they lock fingers until Hamilton’s grip loosens with sleep.

Burr wakes alone, the other side of the bed cold. He wonders for a moment if the events of last night had been some strange, exquisitely detailed illusion. He moves into the kitchen, where he sees a note, confirming that last night had actually occurred. Burr picks up the scrap of paper, reads.

 

 

> _Aaron,_
> 
> _Gone to work early. See you there._
> 
> _Yrs,_
> 
> _A. Ham_

Burr’s frustrated Hamilton went to work at all, seems he shouldn’t be working in his current state. But Burr knows Hamilton (even if he’s never seen him grieve like this, so deeply and wretchedly), knows distractions are the best thing for it. So he tries not to fret, doesn’t let himself immediately rush to work after Hamilton to fuss over him, instead makes coffee and waits for it to brew.

He finds the forgotten mail from last night, brings the envelopes to the table to pore over. Sally’s letter implores him once again to visit; the letters from his Princeton acquaintances are light. He pulls up one envelope with no return address, his name written on it in an elegant script. He wonders if it’s an invitation of some sort, but the weight of the envelope seems too heavy for that.

He breaks the envelope’s seal and there, in the same elegant hand, is a letter. 

 

> _Dear Aaron,_
> 
> _I wasn’t lying when I said I’d write. I do deplore the fact that – alas - you cannot write back, as my addresses change, and are best not shared on post, beside. I hope that you are well, and that you do not regret your decision to come land-side too terribly much. I’ll remind you again that my offer still stands, should fate choose to have our paths cross again._
> 
> _Though I hope you are well, I’m writing to tell you more than just a wish for your wellbeing. In discussions that took place upon our departure from your fine docks, Robert revealed to Sebastian a few things Mr. Hamilton had shared with him, and Sebastian subsequently shared these things with me (as you know, we are terrible gossips)._
> 
> _My point, Aaron, is that the things Mr. Hamilton revealed to Robert appear to mirror the desires you expressed to me. While there is the possibility of the more minute details being lost in translation (as my information is several people removed from the source), this new information that has come to light has compelled me to write to you, and encourage you to speak with Mr. Hamilton on much the same topics you spoke with me about, back in the office (forgive my coyness, here, but I have no way of knowing who reads your letters). It seems to me that you and Mr. Hamilton are of a more similar mind than you led me to believe, or indeed, than you may yourself believe._
> 
> _Do me a favor, Aaron – talk more. Speak with him. Share your thoughts on this matter. Silence gets you nowhere._
> 
> _Should I figure out a way you can write to me, I will let you know posthaste. I would quite like to know how the conversation goes – as does most of the crew. Like I said: gossips._
> 
> _Yrs,_
> 
> _John_

Burr’s shocked in about seven different ways by this letter. He’s surprised Higgins wrote to him at all – the pirate had asked for Burr’s address, but Burr thought he’d been being polite. And then, of course, the actual content of the letter. What had Hamilton confessed to Robert?

_Mirror the desires you expressed to me._

Had Hamilton told Robert about what had happened on the island? Had he – as Burr had – expressed grief upon its ending?

 _Then why the hell didn’t he tell me?_ Burr thinks, then realizes the hypocrisy in the question – for the same reasons he didn’t tell Hamilton.

Burr reads the letter again, then a third time, trying to decipher Higgins’s words, read between the lines.

_Speak with him._

The very idea of speaking with Hamilton about this matter makes Burr feel sick and dizzy, but maybe –

Except he can’t. He can’t bring this to a man who showed up on his doorstep dressed in grief, he can’t burden Hamilton with such a heavy discussion at this time.

(They irony of this – that they have both received letters regarding a John, two letters that altered them, in different ways – does not escape him. The world is a small, strange place.)

He’ll have to wait.

Burr reads the letter again. He considers burning it. He knows he should, but fears if he did do such a thing, he would begin to doubt that there was ever such a letter at all. No, better to keep it, as evidence to himself if nothing else.

Burr feels a spark of hope in his chest. Only a spark, but still. Sparks have set fires before.

_You and Mr. Hamilton are of a more similar mind than you led me to believe, or indeed, than you may yourself believe._

Burr dresses, and heads off to work, to see how Hamilton is doing. To prepare for their upcoming trial.

There’s so much work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started this fic forever ago I had no idea this was going to veer off into such an alternate history path but HERE WE ARE. It's going to get worse.
> 
> notes:  
> \- YES the Arrested Development joke was on purpose  
> \- Hamilton wanted to spend the [modern day equivalent of $334 on mahogany](http://www.in2013dollars.com/1780-dollars-in-2016?amount=20), a fact I totally made up but feels real, to me.  
> \- The [Levi Weeks trial](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Levi_Weeks) didn't actually take place until 1800, but I took Miranda's canon and...bumped it up even more.  
> \- "The war was already over" is a line from "Tomorrow There'll Be More Of Us (Reprise)."


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Burr and Hamilton go to trial -- and on a trip to visit Sally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Actually being inspired to write is incredible and results in me not having to wait 1000 years before updating.

When he gets to the office, Burr finds Hamilton in a whirlwind of paper. There are dark circles under his eyes, and hair frizzing everywhere. When Hamilton looks up Burr notices his eyes are bloodshot.

“Alex…” he says, “are you okay?”

A stupid question. He’s obviously _not_.

“I’m fine.”

“What time did you get here?”

“Around 4.”

“Jesus. Did you sleep?”

“Enough.”

Hamilton cranes his head back down to the paper in front of him, unilaterally ending the conversation.

It’s like that most of the day, Hamilton absorbed in his pile of work, Burr pretending to work but mostly watching Hamilton. He tries to talk to him, a few times, but gets only minimal response. Burr’s at a loss – he doesn’t know what to say, how to comfort him.

He brings Hamilton a cup of coffee and a sandwich, both which sit untouched for hours. Burr moves to clear the plate but Hamilton puts a hand on his arm.

“Don’t,” he says.

“Then eat,” Burr says.

“In a minute.”

 _A minute_ means more like thirty, but Hamilton does finally manage a few bites of the sandwich. He slugs the coffee, too, which makes Burr grimace to watch – it must be nothing but cold sludge, by now – but Hamilton doesn’t react.

By evening, Burr feels exhausted from his worry and discomfort, he selfishly wants to go home and fall into bed.

“Alex,” he says, cautious, “I’m gonna go home. You’re welcome to stay over again, if you’d like.”

Hamilton murmurs something noncommittal, squinting at his paper in the lamplight. Burr sighs.

He cooks his supper, lingers in the kitchen, tidying up things that don't need to be tidied. For all Burr’s stalling, Hamilton does not appear, so Burr finally sighs, retreats to his bedroom. He leaves the back door unlocked, though.

He awakes sometime in the night to the shifting of his mattress, the weight of another body settling beside him. Burr rolls over in the direction of the weight, still half-asleep.

“Alex? Alex, is that you?” he mutters, which is foolish – who else would it be?

“Go back to sleep,” Hamilton says, and Burr wants to touch him, though he refrains. Still, he finds it comforting to have the weight of him in the bed, and Burr wishes – again - that it had not come from such wretched circumstances.

Hamilton is gone again that morning, already set off for work, and a part of Burr is impressed that the man can get ready so quietly. Burr hurries getting ready in the morning, is quick to come see him at the office.

It continues like that for weeks, Hamilton arriving at the office before Burr, and staying after he leaves. A part of Burr suspects Hamilton’s sleeping there. He’d extended the invitation of his home again, but Hamilton hadn’t taken him up on it, though Burr still leaves his backdoor unlocked. Just in case.

Burr is not good with grief – his own, or in others. It makes him uneasy. But he tries. He brings Hamilton food at lunch, reaffirms his offer of company, should Hamilton want it. He starts more conversations, draws Hamilton into debates.

Hamilton does improve – his humor returns, though there’s still a bit of a sharpness to it, an unfiled edge. He gains some of the weight back, though the circles remain under his eyes, dark shadows that Burr longs to cast light on.

 

***

 

“You open, I'll close,” Hamilton says, as they examine – for the hundredth time – their outline for the case and the defense of Levi Weeks.

“Excuse me,” Burr says, “but when did you become lead counsel?”

“Come on,” Hamilton says, insistent, “I'll do a great job. You know I will. You know I'm a good lawyer.”

“I never said you weren’t a good lawyer, only that we never decided that you would be a lead counsel.”

Burr’s exhausted. Being a lawyer involved so much damn _arguing_ with insufferable bastards. And then you actually had to go to trial.

“You can have the next one,” Hamilton says, “promise.”

He grins at Burr, a winning smile, like he knows precisely how it affects Burr, and isn’t afraid to use it.

“Please, Aaron,” Hamilton says, “please? Pretty please? Do you want me to beg? I'll beg…”

And then Hamilton gets down on his fucking _knees_ , which is not the kind of thing Burr needs to see right now, having had minimal alone time in which to take care of himself, and last thing he needs is the sight of Hamilton on his knees on the hardwood floor, begging, even if it is for something altogether different than what Burr would have him beg for.

“Fine,” Burr says, exasperated, trying to look anywhere else in the office, “fine. You can close.”

Hamilton springs back to his feet, bright-eyed and smiling, and for second Burr thinks he'll actually jump up and down, like a child thrilled about a present.

“Oh, thank you Aaron, thank you, this will be great, we’re gonna kick such ass, you'll see, we're such a fucking good team.”

This small victory, unsurprisingly, makes Hamilton more insufferable. He won't shut up about the case, and occasionally misspeaks when they practice, referring to Burr as his assistant council rather than co-counsel. Burr spends enough time correcting him on this that he begins to suspect Hamilton’s doing it on purpose, to get a rise out of Burr. Even knowing this, Burr still objects every time it happens, makes Hamilton start over.

Burr, meanwhile, makes his own plans. Just because he ceded the honor of making the closing argument to Hamilton, didn’t mean he’d ceded all the honor, all the right to make a name for himself. Burr spends hours crafting an opening statement that is meant not just to impress the judge and jury, but also a statement that anticipates all the points he suspects Hamilton will make on his closing argument, Burr’s way of beating him to the punch. The exercise is satisfying, in a way; but it’s more meant as a means of distinguishing himself, making his skills as a lawyer known across all of New York. In closing, Hamilton would have a sort of de facto glory, as his words and presence would be one of the last things the jurymen remembered. Burr uses this to spur himself on, to continue working on his statement.

However, this exercise also had a second, unintended effect. In making it, it provides further evidence to exactly how well he knows Hamilton; he finds it all too easy to think like him, imagining what points he may make, what he will choose to drive home upon closing.

Burr knows that all this is a bit of a jerk move, but so was, he figures, getting on your damn knees in an office and begging.

All’s fair in love and war.

 

***

 

Neither of them gets much sleep in the days leading up to the trial, fueled on nerves and coffee, pouring over every shred of evidence both for and against Levi Weeks’s conviction. Burr doesn't know if the man is innocent or not, but he does know that there is not enough evidence to convict him. Hamilton, however, has more concerns, spends some nights with Burr asking about Levi's guilt or innocence, asking Burr over and over again _do you think he did it, do you think he did it_. Burr never answers this question. A good lawyer, he figures, never does.

The trial begins early, though Burr is still up well before it is set to start, dressing himself in his finest clothes. He checks himself out in the mirror, picking a long strand of hair – Hamilton’s, he assumes - off the shoulder before heading out. He finds Hamilton already at the courthouse, and he is a little awestruck as he lays eyes on him. Hamilton is dressed impeccably, suited out in coat that’s tailored perfectly, hitting him mid-thigh. The color is a gentle green, which complements his hair and dark features. And although Burr always finds Hamilton beautiful – even at his filthiest – this is something different, preened and ready to perform.

“You look nice,” Burr manages. Hamilton glances down, hands smoothing out a nonexistent wrinkle on the coat.

“Thanks, I just got this. It was a bit expensive, but I fell in love with it, and I think I look pretty good in it.”

“Modest as ever.”

“Damn straight,” Hamilton grins, “by the way, you don’t look half bad yourself. Thought I still think I preferred your island look. Save for that shitty mustache.”

Burr walks into the courtroom with his cheeks flushed hot. The trial begins, the prosecutor making his opening argument (flimsy, and full of holes). Burr’s up next, to open for the defense. His speech goes well, he speaks smoothly – he had better, for as many times as he’d practiced the damn thing – and he manages to make his points while still being succinct, building an exquisite case of why the evidence that the prosecutor had was circumstantial at best, and that surely no jury, no good God-fearing man, could convict someone with so little evidence. He does not look at Hamilton the entire time he makes this speech, but when he sits down, Hamilton leans over, and whispers in his ear.

“That was fucking awesome. And also, I hate you.”

Burr grins.

When Hamilton starts his closing argument he’s as awkward as Burr has ever seen him, occasionally stumbling over some of his sentences, working desperately not to reiterate the points Burr had made earlier in his opening argument. Still, as he goes on, Hamilton finds his rhythm, speaks with an eloquence that Burr knows he will never possess. The jury goes to deliberate, and are back within five minutes, verdict in hand. The verdict is passed to the judge, who unrolls it, nodding to himself.

“We the jury,” the judge says, “find the defendant not guilty in the matter of the murder of Miss Elma Sands.”

The courtroom bursts into chatter. Burr and Hamilton look at each other for a moment, stunned – they had won. They had won. The first murder trial of the United States, and they had come out victorious.

 

***

 

It’s the happiest Burr has seen Hamilton since Laurens’s death, newly invigorated by their courtroom victory. Hamilton doesn’t shut up on the way back to the office, already wanting to rehash the case, relive every detail.

Burr’s thrilled too, of course, but it’s a quieter thrill. They get drinks, to celebrate, and Burr is buzzed and light and happy, Hamilton is smiling, and it seems like things might turn out okay after all.

The elation does not last forever, and Hamilton is back at work early the next day, hard at work over their next case (a duel gone wrong, two idiots trying to settle a score with bullets rather than words, dumb and immature), and Burr is frustrated. He’s tired of seeing the dark circles under his eyes. He knows Hamilton is exhausted, must be, but Hamilton doesn’t stop, an incessant, desperate force.

This comes to a head one day when Burr walks in to find Hamilton asleep at his desk, pen still in hand, head laying across the document he’d been drafting. Burr is tempted to let him sleep – lord knows he needs the rest – but he also knows that Hamilton will be upset if he wakes to find himself like this, so Burr puts his hand on Hamilton's shoulder, shakes him gently. Hamilton jerks awake, eyes blinking open. There's an ink stain across one cheek, the paper that Hamilton's head had been resting on smudged into illegibility.

“You need to take a break,” Burr says, “you're working yourself to death.”

“I'm fine,” Hamilton says, “I just didn't sleep well last night. Just a bit tired.”

“Alex, you passed ‘just a bit tired,’ a long time ago. You're exhausted. You have to take care of yourself. _I_ need you to take care of yourself. I can't have my law partner falling asleep during trials, or at his desk.”

Hamilton opens his mouth, ready to argue, but Burr cuts him off.

“Look,” he says, “next week I'm heading upstate to visit Sally. She's been dying to see me – pardon the pun - since our return. Why don't you come with me? There's plenty of room, could rest in the country for a while, relax.”

“We’ve got--”

“There’s nothing on our plates that can’t wait a week.”

“But--”

“I’ll let you do closing on the next big case. And I won’t block you in my openings.”

Hamilton is quiet, considering, so Burr takes a page from Hamilton’s own book.

“Come on, Alex. Do you want me to beg?”

Burr gets down on one knee, then the other. The positioning’s odd – he’s in front of Hamilton’s desk, Hamilton still seated behind it – but Burr’s grateful for the barrier.

“Please, Alex, take a break, I’m begging--”

Hamilton smiles and sighs.

“You win. I can never resist a man on his knees.”

It takes a moment before Burr can comfortably get up.

 

***

 

It’s a daylong coach ride to Sally’s estate in Litchfield. They meet the stagecoach outside their office, bags in hand. It’s dreadfully early – sun’s not even up yet – and they’re both yawning as they step into the interior. There’s already several people inside, strangers – they couldn’t afford private transport – and Burr moves gingerly towards the pair of open seats, Hamilton settling down beside him. They’re pressed close, in the confines of the coach; he can smell the soap Hamilton used recently. The morning air is still cool, and Hamilton’s thigh and shoulder are warm against his.

Burr stares out the window at the passing landscape as Hamilton makes conversations with the strangers in their coach. They stop briefly for lunch, to stretch their legs, and then are crammed back into the coach and a stifling silence falls over the cabin as the ennui of the afternoon envelops them. Burr feels his eyes drifting closed as he looks out the window, head nodding –

He awakens with a jerk as the coach strikes something – country roads are far from smooth – and realizes he’d fallen asleep, and against Hamilton’s shoulder, at that.

“Sorry,” Burr says, lifting his head.

“No worries.”

Hamilton smiles at him. Out the window, the countryside rolls on.

Most of Burr’s muscles ache from being cramped in the small seat. Outside, it’s grown dark, and a chill rushes through. Hamilton drapes his coat over his lap, gives the tail end of it to Burr. The other occupants in the coach seem to be asleep, heads lolling, but Burr’s too uncomfortable to sleep. He shifts in his seat again, ass aching, unable to find a position that’s comfortable for more than a few minutes.

“Stop fidgeting,” Hamilton whispers, “I’m trying to get my beauty rest.”

Burr bites back a retort. He’s the one who insisted on this trip, after all. He can’t fuss.

Still, he can’t help but shift again. He interlaces his fingers, manages a minute stretch above his head. But when he places his hand, palm-down, against his seat he finds skin there, not fabric. Hamilton’s hand, encroaching in his space. Burr moves his hand, but not far. The coach jostles again, and Hamilton’s shoulder bumps his, hand shifting with the movement, touching him. Burr waits for it to recede, but it doesn’t. Burr knows it could be innocent – they’re tired, it’s late, the coach has thrown them about for close to twelve hours now – but it doesn’t _feel_ like a mistake, it feels purposeful.

Cautious, Burr shifts his hand, just slightly, the barest drag of his skin against Hamilton. The kind of thing that could be accidental. He holds his breath, and feels Hamilton’s hand shift against his, mimicking the motion Burr had made. The barest thing, but it electrifies Burr. He moves his pinkie now, catching the fingertip against the top of Hamilton’s knuckle. He tries to look at Hamilton out of the corner of his eye, but it’s so dark in the stagecoach, and Hamilton appears to be looking straight ahead. But Hamilton’s hand shifts – more purposeful, now – and part of his hand covers Burrs’, his palm pressing warm against the top of Burr’s hand. Burr flips his palm over, not daring to breathe, and Hamilton’s fingers interlace with his, the thumb stroking the side of his hand.

It’s not that they haven’t held hands before, even off the island, but the _purposefulness_ of this is what has Burr’s heart thudding (that, and the illicit nature of it, the sleeping patrons around them, the cover of Hamilton’s coat and the darkness). Burr moves his own thumb, runs it along Hamiltons’, while his mind whirrs, thinking of Higgins’s letter.

_Of a more similar mind than you led me to believe, or indeed, than you may yourself believe._

Except right now, Hamilton’s hand in his has Burr believing all sorts of things. Or perhaps just wishing. He isn’t too sure of the difference.

 

***

 

They roll up to Sally's estate at almost midnight, slipping gingerly out the door. The time had passed remarkably quick once Hamilton’s thumb had played across the back of his hand, and Burr regrets deeply that it hadn't happened sooner, for the rest of the carriage ride had felt all too short. As he disembarks from the stagecoach, his legs feel unsteady, shaky from the long, cramped ride.

“Fuck, my ass hurts,” Hamilton says, getting out beside him. Burr’s own seat bones ache, but the pain seems faraway, his mind too busy mulling over what had transpired in the coach. Taken alone, it was a fairly innocent act, but when put into the context of their history, it’s an act that has so much more gravity to it. Hamilton had taken his hand, fingers entwined, held it. Had been – not to put too fine a point on things – in a similar state of mind as Burr. Burr tries to put these thoughts aside as they walk up to the front door, which swings open before he can knock, Sally there to greet them. She wraps her arms fiercely about Burr, hard enough that the breath goes out of him for a moment, and then he hugs her back, laughing.

“Easy there,” he says, but she holds on for a beat longer before releasing and noticing Hamilton.

“You must be the famous Alexander Hamilton,” she says, and, without waiting for an answer, hugs Hamilton, too. Hamilton, a good sport, hugs her back, then takes her hand and kisses it.

“And you must be the famous Sally Burr,” he says, “I’m at your service, ma’am.”

“Sally Reeve,” she corrects, then steps back, gestures them through the doorway, “come in, come in.”

The house is large, a hair short of lavish. From all Sally had told him, her husband Tapping’s law practice was flourishing, reputation growing until he was supervising as many cases as he was taking on himself. Sally promises them a proper tour tomorrow, and shows them to their room.

“Figured you wouldn’t mind sharing,” she says, “the other bedroom is currently occupied by Aaron Burr.”

“Beg pardon?” Burr says.

“I wanted to tell you in person,” she says, laughing, “you’re an uncle! Aaron will be a year come October. We named him after you, when we heard the news and thought you were…”she trails off, uncomfortable.

“When you thought I was dead,” Burr finishes.

“Well, yes. I wanted to honor my little brother.”

Burr hugs her.

“I couldn’t be more honored,” he says, “I can’t wait to meet him.”

Sally bids them goodnight and they’re left to get ready for bed. Burr wants to savor it, the chance to once more share a bed with Hamilton – this time under more cheerful circumstances – but he’s so tired he can barely keep his eyes open. He climbs into bed, lying on his back, and Hamilton climbs in beside him. It’s not a large bed, their shoulders touch – just slightly – and it feels so natural that it hurts Burr’s heart for a moment. He tries to relish it, but before he can he’s drifting off to sleep, Hamilton beside him.

He wakes sometime in the night, finds he has turned towards Hamilton. The way plants turn to the sun, just as he had on the island.

He doesn’t turn back over.

 

***

 

That morning, Burr slips out of bed, careful not to disturb Hamilton, who’s still asleep, body reasserting control and repaying the massive sleep debt Hamilton had no doubt accumulated. He moves into the kitchen, where he finds Sally, a baby perched in her lap.

“Good morning, Aaron,” she says, “coffee’s over there.”

He pours himself a cup, sits down across from her.

“Aaron, meet Aaron,” she says, waving one of the baby’s chubby fists in his direction. Feeling a bit like a fool, Burr waves back.

“Want to hold him?”

Not really – babies make him nervous – but Burr puts his coffee on the table and holds out his arms for his nephew. Sally places the baby in his arms and the boy goggles up at Burr. Burr gives little Aaron his finger and the baby grabs it, grips tight. Burr smiles, melting a little, and looks up to see Sally’s smiling, too.

“He likes you,” she says, then glances out the window, “ah, can you hold him for a second? I need to run outside.”

Before Burr can protest, she’s slipping out the door, and Burr and little Aaron are alone together. The baby wriggles in his arms, not distressed, but far too _active_ for Burr to feel comfortable. Burr pulls faces, trying to distract him, but it still feels like he’s holding a kitten that doesn’t want to be held, and panic rises in his chest.

“Give him here, you’re making a mess of it,” a voice says from behind him, and then Hamilton reaches down, grabbing the baby at the armpits and swinging him up to as the baby shrieks delightedly. Hamilton swoops the baby twice more, then sits down, thumbs in Aaron’s fists, letting the baby stand upright on his thighs.

“They’re tougher than you think, Aaron,” Hamilton says, jiggling his legs while steadying the baby, “don’t worry so much.”

Hamilton lifts the baby up, blows raspberries on his stomach, and when Sally walks back in, the kitchen is filled with laughter.

 

***

 

Burr gets better with the baby, more used to him. He’s still wary when he holds him, but he’s gradually become more convinced the baby won’t shatter in his arms.

He has the baby balanced on his thighs, much as Hamilton had, hands fisted around Aaron’s tight grip. The baby’s smiling and babbling and Burr’s smiling back, cooing. When Tapping had returned from his meeting Hamilton had latched on to him immediately, asking for his opinions and advice, and soon enough both men were in Tapping’s study, and the occasional raised – but not angry – voice could be heard through the thick door. It was just Burr, Sally, and little Aaron, and it felt strangely peaceful.

That is, until the baby makes a strange face Burr can’t quite recognize, and then spits up all over his shirt.

Sally, trying to hold back her laughter, plucks the messy baby from his grip.

“I’m sorry, Aaron! I should have warned you, I’d just fed him,” she says, “go clean up.”

Burr retreats to their room, strips off his shirt and searches for a replacement. His luggage is in disarray from Hamilton changing outfits twice before meeting Tapping ( _he’s a big deal_ , Hamilton had told Burr, _we could learn a lot from him_ ). Burr kneels down, paws through an open suitcase for a minute before realizing it’s the wrong one, that these are Hamilton’s things, not his. He withdraws his hand, but something in the corner of the bag catches his eye, a small drawstring bag made of something soft, like velvet.

Burr knows it’s snooping, but the bag keeps catching his eye. Finally – giving in to baser desires – he pulls the bag out. It’s light, but he can feel something inside it. He opens it, tips the bag so its contents spill into his hand.

Out comes the bracelet he’d made for Hamilton back in the cave while he was infirm, what felt now like hundreds of years ago. The one he had noticed missing from Hamilton’s wrist – broken and thrown away, he’d assumed, or maybe taken off out of embarrassment. He was correct in one aspect – the ends were frayed where he’d once tied them, a clear disintegration of the knot. Broken, then.

Burr traces the shell lightly, looks at the frayed coconut fibers. He’s touched, deeply, that Hamilton has kept this, that he obviously treasures it enough to take it with him.

There’s a knock on the door and then it’s opening before Burr can answer, he has just enough time to throw the bracelet back in the bag and shove it back into Hamilton’s luggage. He grabs a shirt at random, and stands up, where Hamilton is watching him with an odd look on his face.

“What’re you doing?”

“Aaron spit up on me. Grabbing a new shirt.”

Burr waves the shirt in his hand. Proof. Hamilton eyes him.

“Yeah, well, that’s my shirt.”

“Well--” Burr oscillates between admitting his error and pretending he’d done it on purpose, goes with the latter, “you made such a mess of our luggage it was the only thing I could find.”

Hamilton shrugs.

“Fine by me.”

Cornered by his own grandstanding, Burr pulls on Hamilton’s shirt, which smells overwhelmingly like him in a way that almost dizzies Burr. Hamilton watches the whole time, which makes Burr’s skin tingle.

“Looks good on you,” Hamilton says.

Burr examines himself in the mirror. The shirt fits well enough, if a hair tight – Hamilton prefers more form-fitting clothes than Burr.

Hamilton follows him back into the parlor, where Hamilton quickly takes the baby from Sally, cooing to him.

“I heard you spit up on your uncle Aaron,” he says, “bet you would _never_ do that to your uncle Alex.”

“You’re tempting fate,” Burr observes. But alas, karma doesn’t come, and Hamilton remains pristine as they wile away the hours playing with the baby.

 

***

 

In bed that night, they sleep with the window open, pressed close together. Hamilton’s asleep – he’s slept a lot (for him) on this trip, and Burr is glad for it – but Burr lies awake, thinking about the bracelet in Hamilton’s luggage, stored so carefully in that bag, the way Hamilton had watched him dress. The coach ride, Hamilton’s hand in his.

Like a law case, Burr compiles this evidence. He crafts arguments, acting as defense and prosecution both.

_He wants me._

_He doesn’t want me_.

But the evidence for this keeps coming. Some of it may be his imagination – his projection – but not all of it. Not the tangible things, like the feel of Hamilton’s hand in his, or the weight of a bracelet in his palm.

Burr’s doubt, once reasonable, has begun to draw back, and he has begun to wonder: _what if?_

 

***

 

The next morning Sally comes to Burr, apologetic.

“Tapping forgot to tell me,” she says, “but he has an event this afternoon, and wants me and little Aaron to attend. I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize--

 “It’s fine,” Burr says, “don’t worry about it. Hamilton and I can entertain ourselves for one afternoon.”

“But you’re guests!”

“We’re fine. Promise.”

“We’ll make it up to you,” Sally says, “I could see about getting you an invite…”

“Sally, the last thing I want to do is mill about with a bunch of strangers. This is fine.”

She eyes him once more, reads the truth in his answer.

“Okay, okay. Thanks for being so understanding.”

“Tell Tapping he owes me free legal consultation.”

“Done.”

She settles, and Burr quietly thrills at the thought of it, being alone out in the country with Hamilton.

 

***

 

Sally still makes a bit of a fuss when they actually leave, despite Burr and Hamilton assuring her they are more than capable of keeping themselves entertained. It’s Hamilton who finally ushers Sally out the door and into the waiting carriage. Burr watches from the doorway as Hamilton walks back, brushing imaginary dust off his hands.

“Alone at last,” Hamilton says, “got any plans?”

“I was planning on going for a walk, actually.”

“Want company?”

“Would it matter if I said no?”

“Were you going to?”

“Of course not.”

They set out on a random direction Hamilton chooses. The estate is large, the rear of it bracketed by woods, and these are what Hamilton leads them through. It’s a familiar enough feeling, following Hamilton through unblazed trails.

“Sally’s a bit of a worrier, isn’t she?” Hamilton says as they hit an open piece of woods, a stretch carpeted in fallen pine needles.

“Well, I did die,” Burr says, “and she’s always looked out for me, ever since we were children.”

Hamilton smiles.

“James was the same way,” he says, “always watching out for me. He probably had a harder time than Sally did, I imagine.”

“What, you weren’t a model child?”

“That depends entirely on your definition of _model_.”

Burr rolls his eyes. The trail narrows again, the underbrush thicker. Burr swats at a mosquito.

“Do you know where you’re going?” he says. He draws back his hand, examines the crushed mosquito and streak of blood.

“Generally speaking, yeah,” Hamilton calls back.

The woods clear out into a small meadow. The grass is uncut and comes up to Burr’s knees in places. They walk through the meadow and there, near the corner, is a pond. It’s slightly smaller than their pool on the island, but it’s remarkably clear, when Burr peers down he sees the undisturbed silt on the bottom. A dragonfly skims the surface of the water, setting off small ripples.

“I haven’t been swimming since we got back,” Hamilton says, looking askance at Burr, “what do you say?”

Burr’s sweaty from their walk. It’s been humid all day, the skies threatening rain but never delivering. The water looks glorious, even if the sky beyond looks somewhat ominous.

“Absolutely,” Burr replies, because he was always going to say yes.

They strip down, and Burr tries not to look, even though he can’t help but revel in the glimpses of skin from the corner of his eye. Burr moves quickly into the pond – it’s cool, almost cold – and wades out to hip level. Hamilton swims out to the center, where his legs no longer touch the floor, and he treads water there, turning to look back at Burr.

Burr moves further out, pointing his toes to keep contact with the dirt for as long as possible before the water grows too deep. It does feel good to swim again. Hamilton is absolutely reveling in it, disappearing underwater and popping back up. Burr retreats back to where he can stand on solid ground, just under chest-deep now, watching Hamilton moves through the water like an otter.

He takes his eyes away only for a moment, turns them up to watch a flock of geese crying overhead across the darkening sky. _It’ll storm soon_ , he thinks, looking back to the middle of the pond to relay this information to Hamilton, but Hamilton is gone. Burr looks around, confused, and then Hamilton bursts up beside him in a great splash, laughing.

Burr scrapes water from his face and swats water towards Hamilton.

“Jerk,” he says.

“I couldn’t help it,” Hamilton says, “you looked so tempting, standing there.”

Burr tenses.

_Of a more similar mind than you led me to believe, or indeed, than you may yourself believe._

Hamilton had taken his hand in the carriage. Had led them here, to this pond. Calling Burr _tempting_. This moment, now, an echo of other times they had stood in a body of water, worlds unsaid between them.

The evidence, still piling on.

“Do you remember,” Burr says, struggling to keep his voice even, “last time you tried to start a splash fight?”

Hamilton goes still, now, and looks at Burr, and it’s the same heavy, wanting gaze that Burr recalls from the island and _oh_ , his heart’s going a mile a minute, it’ll surely burst out of his chest any minute now.

“Couldn’t forget if I tried,” Hamilton replies. Still looking at Burr. Watching. Gauging.

“I thought you wanted me to kiss you, that night.”

They’d been so _close_. Burr remembers how Hamilton’s wrist had felt in his grip. The flutter of a pulse, like birds. And then the wave, ruining it.

“I did.”

Hamilton speaks so softly Burr wonders for a moment if he spoke at all. Hamilton’s moved closer. Burr looks at the surface of the pond. He reaches out, and takes Hamilton wrist. Hamilton lets him.

“I wanted to. That night.”

“And now?”

The answer: Burr moves closer and Hamilton leans in, their lips meeting, and it’s as Burr remembered – no, it’s _better_ , like lightning under the skin, a hundred birds taking wing, the kind of thing memory doesn’t do justice. He kisses him, Hamilton kissing back, and Burr releases Hamilton’s wrist to better wrap his arms around him, wanting to destroy all the space between them. Hamilton complies, eager, he kisses Burr with a voracity and Burr has enough coherent thought to thrill at this – at Hamilton’s _wanting_ – but then his thoughts turn to the matters at hand, the body pressed tight against him. They move towards the shore – Burr isn’t sure who’s guiding who – and then Burr’s sprawled on the grass, Hamilton on top of him, grinding against him, one hand moving down to take Burr in hand, and for a moment Burr thinks the flash of lighting is in his head, but the subsequent roll of thunder shakes the earth.

Hamilton curses and rolls off of him as the first raindrops splatter down. The sky is stone-dark now, more thunder rumbling in the distance. Burr can see the sheet of rain in the distance.

They pull on their clothes over sopping bodies and begin sprinting back to the house. The rain finds them before they even get halfway back, and as Burr struggles to see he feels Hamilton’s hand slip into his, guiding him home.

They’re soaked to the bone when they make it back, leaving a wet trail to their room. Burr’s breathing heavily – he’s more out of shape than he thought. Hamilton closes their bedroom door and strips off his wet clothes, an act Burr watches eagerly. Hamilton moves in, begins to remove Burr’s own clothes – no easy feat, wet and sticking to the skin – and Burr does what he can to help.

Hamilton kisses him, fingers moving over Burr’s wet skin, and Burr kisses back, thrilling at the feel of Hamilton’s body against his, the eager way he kissed, and he thinks he could do this forever, except –

The realization dawns cruelly, when Hamilton has him back against a wall and has his mouth sucking a bruise on Burr’s collarbone.

“Alex,” Burr says, breathless, then tries to steady himself, says it again, firmer, “Alex, we can’t.”

Hamilton withdraws suddenly, looks at Burr, confusion and hurt writ large over his face.

“But--”

“No, I mean,” Burr amends, “we can’t do anything _here_ \--”

“But you want to.”

Chests flush, breathing heavy, Hamilton looking at him with a question that, for once, Burr knows exactly how to answer.

“I want nothing more,” he says, pressing his forehead to Hamilton’s, and it’s a moment that will be carved into his mind, the way they are now, the wanting, “but I’d not have Sally brought into…this.”

“I understand,” Hamilton says, and though his voice still sounds cracked, his face is less wretched, less fearful.

“When we return, though, would you stay the night?”

Hamilton smiles, kisses him, then pulls away, echoes Burr.

“I want nothing more.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOOK THERE'S KISSING FINALLY FINALLY FINALLY
> 
> ALSO it may be a little bit before the next update unless I go on a writing binge because the first few weeks of next month are Crazy.
> 
> Read Hamilton's POV of the coach ride [here](http://thinksideways.tumblr.com/post/175052092671/pov-please)
> 
> Notes:  
> \- "[That the competition between Hamilton and Burr originated in their early days in legal practice is confirmed by a tale told by James Parton, an early Burr biographer. The first time that the two men jointly defended a client, the question came up as to who would speak first and who would sum up. Protocol stipulated that the lead attorney would do the summation, and Hamilton wished to be the one. Burr was so offended by this patent vanity that in his opening speech he tried to anticipate all the points that Hamilton would likely make. Apparently, he was so effective at this that Hamilton, embarrassed, had nothing to say at the end. If the story is true, it was one of the few times that Alexander Hamilton was ever left speechless.](https://books.google.com/books?id=4iafgTEhU3QC&pg=PA193&dq=%22That+the+competition+between+Hamilton+and+Burr+originated+in+their+early+days+in+legal+practice+is+confirmed%22&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0CB0Q6AEwAGoVChMI3qj2nYy-yAIVBKgeCh39swyP#v=onepage&q=%22That%20the%20competition%20between%20Hamilton%20and%20Burr%20originated%20in%20their%20early%20days%20in%20legal%20practice%20is%20confirmed%22&f=false)"  
> \- ^ Granted, that didn't happen during the Weeks trial, but it's a great story that needs to be included.  
> \- everything I know about lawyer-ing comes from me depression-watching every single season of Law and Order: SVU a few years ago while in grad school so please forgive me  
> \- [Burr's sister totally named her kid Aaron Burr and I had to include it](http://www.litchfieldhistoricalsociety.org/ledger/students/2120).


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "They get dressed; though they still gravitate towards one another, two planets orbiting the same solar system. Burr’s desire to touch Hamilton has increased tenfold now that he knows his touches are welcomed, and the sheer _wanting_ of it is overwhelming, a creature crouched in his chest."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The past two months have been filled with certifications, traveling, and way too much goddamned reporting, but I'm not dead, and neither is this fic.

They get dressed; though they still gravitate towards one another, two planets orbiting the same solar system. Burr’s desire to touch Hamilton has increased tenfold now that he knows his touches are welcomed, and the sheer _wanting_ of it is overwhelming, a creature crouched in his chest.

Sally arrives home not long after they do – albeit without Tapping, who had apparently needed to stay and help a colleague of his - with a wet and very displeased baby in her arms. Hamilton takes the baby from her, and she notices his mop of wet hair.

“We were out walking,” he tells her, “got caught.”

Sally nods, then fetches dry clothes for little Aaron. Burr watches as Hamilton helps Sally dress the squalling baby, and once he’s dry Hamilton takes him and starts throwing him about until soon the baby is laughing again.

“He loves his uncle Alex,” Hamilton coos, “yes he does.”

Burr’s first instinct is to roll his eyes, but instead he smiles. The baby does like Hamilton, perhaps too much (there’s been times when Burr’s been holding him, but when Hamilton enters the room he’ll stretch his arms out towards him, which definitely doesn’t make Burr jealous _at all_ ). The easy integration of Hamilton into what’s left of Burr’s family, like they could do this again, and again leaves Burr’s stomach warm.

The evening comes on, Tapping still gone, and Sally rises to put the baby to bed.

“Let me help,” offers Hamilton, but she shakes his head.

“You’ll just rile him up,” she says, and carries little Aaron to his room. Hamilton takes advantage of their momentary solitude by flopping down on the couch beside him, rubbing one hand over Burr’s thigh. Burr places his own hand over Hamiltons’ and squeezes, briefly, then releases it, returning his hands to his lap. Hamilton, incessant, traces his fingers lightly across Burr’s inner thigh, making him squirm. He grabs Hamilton’s hand again, moves it.

“Quit,” he says, and Hamilton sighs, dramatic, but his hands stay on his side of the couch.

Sally returns with a bottle of wine, pours them all a glass. And another.

Several glasses in, Burr notices Sally staring at him. Hamilton’s still beside him, legs touching, and Burr wonders if it’s writ on his face. But she smiles, and reaches across the space between them to touch his knee.

“Forgive me for saying it,” she says, “but I think being shipwrecked was good for you, Aaron.”

Burr laughs, but she doesn’t laugh with him.

“I’m serious,” she says, “last time I saw you...you were different. You seem happier, now. Less uptight.”

Hamilton, annoyed at being left out of the conversation, leans forward to join, his shoulder against Burr.

“He is, isn’t he? Not too sure I’d repeat the experience, but a little bit of shipwreck was good for our man here. And me, too.”

“Oh? How’d it change you?” asks Sally.

Hamilton glances at Burr.

“I smile more.”

Hamilton does just that, smiles in a way that makes Burr’s heartbeat speed up. Sally smiles too, in the polite way of people who sense there’s a joke there, but one they don’t quite understand. The talk turns away from the islands, and instead they talk of Tapping’s business, and of what they'll have for supper tomorrow. Burr thinks it’s one of the best days of his life.

 

***

 

When they finally retreat to bed Burr’s pleasantly buzzed and Hamilton perhaps a glass past that. As soon as the door closes Hamilton has Burr against the wall, though he doesn’t kiss him, instead traces a thumb against Burr’s temple, down his cheek and jawline and just _looks_ at him, and the naked intensity of his gaze makes Burr’s skin prickle into gooseflesh.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Hamilton murmurs, thumb moving lightly down Burr’s throat, resting on his clavicle, “so fucking beautiful.”

It’s odd, to be called _beautiful_ , but the reverent tone of Hamilton’s voice makes Burr want to be called so again and again.

Unable to respond, Burr kisses him – just once – and then Hamilton moves so Burr can get by. They change into nightclothes – Burr is loath to put on clothes at all, but you never know who might burst in – and climb into bed, facing each other, now. Hamilton’s hand reaches out once more, plays at the neckline of Burr’s shirt.

“I was beginning to think I was wrong,” Hamilton says, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t quite look at him, “I wondered if I’d misread you, or otherwise done something to cause you to lose interest in me.”

“I thought that it was all a matter of _convenience_ for you,” Burr says. He doesn’t intend for the words to sound cruel, but they do. They’ve festered inside him for months now. Hamilton’s face crumples.

“Aaron…I thought that’s what you _wanted_ me to say. You needed an excuse. You practically fed me that line.”

Had he? Burr barely recalls the conversation in itself, had diluted it down to those three words.

“But then, when we were landside…at the brothel, you couldn’t wait to find a woman.”

Hamilton looks genuinely confused.

“When we all went out together? And you disappeared? Aaron, I assumed _you’d_ gone with a woman, I saw you talking to that girl at the bar. Didn’t know where you got the money for it, thought maybe you’d charmed one into giving it up for free….but no, I was in the main area all night, drinking. There were women who stopped by, some quite bold, and no, I wasn’t exactly in a hurry to push them off, but…”

“Oh.”

“And then, Aaron, the next night, when I tried…well, when I tried, and you left? I assumed that was it. That that was your way of ending things.”

“I thought you were thinking of last night’s whore. That I was a stand-in.”

“God, no, Aaron…” Hamilton sounds genuinely hurt, “I’d been waiting days for us to have some semblance of alone.”

And Burr had ruined it. Had stormed off in a tantrum, all because of a whiff of cheap perfume.

“Shit, Alex, I’m sorry, I just – I saw you at the brothel, a woman on your lap, and it just…I thought you were back to your old ways, that I was situational.”

Hamilton takes his hand.

“You’re not,” he says, repeats it, “you’re not.”

 

***

 

The remaining two days pass with all the speed of molasses running uphill. Burr does his best to keep busy, and tries not to be alone with Hamilton too much. At night, though, there’s no barriers – in bed, it takes everything Burr has to keep his hands off of him (well, mostly off him, he at least tries to keep his hands above the waist, mostly succeeds). Hamilton doesn’t make piety easy, although he respects Burr’s wish not to involve Sally in their affairs, this doesn’t stop him from dressing and undressing when he knows Burr is watching, a tantalizing slowness to his movements. He’ll sit just a bit too close, too, finding excuses to touch Burr, and sometimes the whole affair feels so glaringly obvious that Burr wonders how it’ll ever be kept quiet, is sure that his desire is laid bare on his face every time he so much as looks at Hamilton.

When it finally comes time for them to go, Sally fights back tears as she hugs them goodbye, and Burr fights back a few himself, especially as he hands the baby back to her.

“You’ll come visit again soon, won’t you?” Sally says, and then looks to Hamilton, “you too, Alex. Aaron loves you. Well, little Aaron does.”

She laughs. Burr’s face twitches. She doesn’t seem to notice.

They say their final goodbyes and climb into the coach, settling in for the long ride. The journey back seems to take twice as long, a new anticipation worming its way into Burr’s blood and he has to focus extensively on his breathing, school his face into an expression of calm. Burr’s self-control is tested further when it gets dark, and Hamilton’s coat is once again draped across their laps. He feels Hamilton’s hand on his thigh, the touch light, subtle, and though Hamilton’s hand is a good distance away from where Burr would prefer to be touched, it’s still almost too much, and he’s rock-hard from the teasing.

He’s never been more grateful for the dark as he is when they arrive home, awkwardly shuffling out of the coach, hunched at the waist and pretending to be stiff from the long ride (well, he’s definitely _stiff_ , but not due to the coach itself).  Hamilton comes up behind him, puts a hand lightly on his shoulder, as if Burr needs guiding into his own house. He feels the slightest warmth of Hamilton’s breath on his neck, and Burr thinks he’s never been so horny in his damn _life_.

They almost make it inside.

They get up the porch steps, but then Burr looks back at Hamilton, at his dark and hungry eyes, and some dam breaks in his self-control, because before he’s even entirely aware it’s happening he has Hamilton backed against the door under the flimsy cover of shadows, kissing him for all he’s worth, the way he’s wanted – needed – to kiss him for days (for weeks – _months_ ). His hands move too, over chest and hips, and Burr’s ready to go to his knees right there, ready to _take_ –

It’s Hamilton who exhibits the self-control, which tells Burr just how bad it’s gotten. It’s Hamilton who pulls back, smiling, taking the key from Burr’s pocket (the hand lingering there for a moment, as if Burr needed any more encouragement). It’s Hamilton who unlocks the door, lets them in, assures their bags are inside, then locks the door back.

“Now,” Hamilton says, “where were we?”

Burr picks up where he’d left off, all the months of wanting and waiting finally unleashed; and Hamilton is there to take it, to give back his own wanting – the wanting Burr had not known about, the wanting he had doubted – and Burr lets it all run over him, like water over rocks. Like waves.

He has Hamilton undressed long before they make it to bedroom – hell, Burr wouldn’t even have made it that far without Hamilton guiding him towards the bed. Burr removes his last item of clothing – an errant stocking that had been missed in the fray – then pulls Hamilton down onto the bed, still kissing him, unwilling (or perhaps unable) to stop. He takes Hamilton’s cock in his other hand, strokes him, which causes Hamilton to make a beautiful moan that Burr feels in his entire body.

“Fuck,” Burr says, “I missed you.”

Hamilton murmurs something back, something that sounds like _I missed you, too_.

Burr kisses down the length of Hamilton’s body, and though he wants to savor this reacquainting, he’s still too eager, the anticipation bleeding out of every pore. He takes Hamilton into his mouth, so deeply in his eagerness that he chokes at first, has to readjust and breathe through his nose. He brings his hand up instead, uses it to cover what his mouth can’t, and slowly moves his head, tongue licking over the head and hand moving down the shaft. Hamilton has his head thrown back, moaning, fingernails scrabbling and digging at Burr’s shoulders. When they break flesh, Burr savors the feeling, the marking.

Hamilton alternates between cursing and moaning Burr’s name, and Burr continues his ministrations, his free hand playing lightly with Hamilton’s balls, cheeks hollowing with suction. It doesn’t take long before Hamilton groans and goes stiff, cock twitching in Burr’s mouth, and Burr swallows, licks the head clean.

“ _Aaron_ ,” Hamilton says as Burr flops back beside him, his voice stunned, and Burr grins, pleased to have brought such surprise to him, “fuck, you’re so good. I think you’ve gotten better, actually. Is there something you should tell me?”

He looks sideways at Burr. Burr laughs.

“I just missed you,” he says, and Hamilton takes his hand, squeezes it. It’s not long before his hand drifts lower, strokes Burr lazily, but even such slow attentions have Burr twitching, making a low, whining noise in the back of his throat that does not sound like him at _all_.

“I thought I was supposed to be the patient one,” he manages, considering it a small miracle he’s strung that many words together at all. Hamilton’s still moving slowly, thumb rubbing in the slit of Burr’s cockhead, moving in easy circles.

“You have been very patient,” Hamilton observes, “and I suppose you should be rewarded for it.”

Hamilton moves between Burr’s thighs, though he still has none of the urgency Burr had possessed, a fact Burr finds quite maddening, especially right now, when his balls feel as if they’ve experienced every shade of blue under the sun. But then Hamilton’s mouth is on him, feeling like heaven, and Burr forgets all his complaints. He looks down, watches Hamilton, who meets his eyes as his mouth moves further down Burr’s cock, and watching the length of him disappear into that wet, stretched mouth is nearly too much and Burr has to look away, lest he come right there. He closes his eyes instead, fingers clenching at the rumpled sheets. Hamilton’s deliberate movements overcome him far too quickly – embarrassingly quickly, really, though in Burr’s defense it’s been _months_ since he’s been laid – and he shouts Hamilton’s name when he comes, spilling out into that gloriously reddened mouth.

After, Hamilton kisses him, sloppy, then lies beside him, head nestled in the crook of Burr’s shoulder.

“You have no idea how much I’ve wanted to do that,” Hamilton says, and Burr laughs.

“The feeling’s mutual.”

“Could have been doing this months ago if you’d just fucking talked to me.”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

“Doesn’t matter, anyway. We’re here now.”

Burr pulls him close. Here, now.

 

***

 

He wakes up in the night to hands on his body, to Hamilton's mouth on his jaw. He responds in kind, hands trailing down Hamilton's back before he’s even fully awake, resting one hand on the swell of Hamilton's truly exquisite ass. Hamilton rolls his hips, grinds against him, and Burr feels the hard length of him against his hip. He turns his head, catches Hamilton's mouth with his own, and rolls so that he’s on top of him. He ruts against him, pausing only to slick his hand with spit and rub it over their cocks. His cock glides easily over Hamilton's skin, sliding in the crevice of his hip. The stimulation is minimal, but positioned like this - kissing him, feeling Hamilton’s hard cock pressing into his stomach, thrusting his hips against him - it’s almost like he’s fucking him. He moans at the thought, grinds harder against him, and when Hamilton reaches down and takes him in hand it only takes a few strikes before Burr’s coming, spilling over Hamilton’s stomach, head buried against his neck.

He stays there for a moment, breathing him in, reveling in the fact that this is actually happening - them in a bed, not a _matter of convenience_ but a want, a need. A choice made. He smiles against the crook of Hamilton’s neck, plants a kiss there, then keeps kissing downward, over his chest and stomach and hips before taking Hamilton into his mouth. He goes slower, this time, made languid by the lateness of the hour and the looseness from his own orgasm. He traces the point of his tongue down Hamilton’s shaft, around the ridge of his cock.

“Aaron,” Hamilton moans – the first actual word said between them since Hamilton had woken him, and it thrills Burr that it’s his name. He takes Hamilton deeper into his mouth, works him with more purpose, and feels the slight pressure of Hamilton’s hand on the back of his neck, as if Burr needed any encouragement to stay where he was. The hand tightens, and when Hamilton comes Burr feels the bite of nails in his neck.

After, they kiss again. Hamilton falls asleep first, head on Burr’s chest, and Burr follows suit not long after, arms still wrapped around him.

 

***

 

Everything feels almost dreamlike in the following days. Intoxicating. Work takes on a strange new aspect. Although Burr had often watched Hamilton while he wrote, he had always been somewhat subtle about it. Now, though, Burr watches him with the knowledge that anytime (well, almost anytime) he could get up and touch Hamilton – kiss him, even. He catches Hamilton looking at him in much the same fashion. They aren’t obvious in their affections while at work, but the shared secret still feels writ large between all the shared glances, or the way Hamilton’s hand lingers on his shoulder.

Burr stays in this state of euphoria for more than a week, drunk on affection and sex, and it isn’t until Hamilton leaves overnight for an appointment that Burr is left alone with his thoughts and the cold reality of the situation. The thoughts had been there, of course, but in the warm bubble of Hamilton’s affections and Burr’s overwhelming hormones, it had been easier to push aside. But Burr has little to do but consider them now.

He knows this: he’s in love with Alexander Hamilton. Has been for quite some time. He hasn’t said the words out loud, but then, neither has Hamilton. Burr’s a little terrified at both the idea of being in love and the fact Hamilton hasn’t said as much to him.

He knows – or, had once known – that such feelings (and the actions that have accompanied them) are abominable, unnatural. Ugly, vile things. These are the thoughts that threaten him, black as a cancer, lurking in the recesses of his mind. Sinful – and, more importantly, a crime.

But then – he thinks of Higgins and Trumbull, of the rings on their fingers. Higgins had expressed no concerns for his immortal soul, and he and Trumbull seemed to live just as husbands and wives did. Like it was something possible.

But New York is not the open seas – here there are laws, and godly men in positions of power who’d likely see them imprisoned for their actions. So how is this possibly sustainable? He and Hamilton both have political aspirations. Hamilton especially, as the man thrives on attention and can’t resist inserting his opinion on just about anything.

It can’t last. And Burr just has to accept that.

He gets very drunk instead.

 

***

 

He’s hungover and snappish the next day, which shows itself when Hamilton bursts into the office, making enough noise for several people.

“Could you please be quiet? I’m trying to work,” Burr says, though he hasn’t made a single note on the document he’s meant to be reviewing.

“Sorry,” Hamilton apologizes, though he still drags his chair across the wood floor way too slowly, making a horrific noise. And then he doesn’t even _sit_ in the damn chair, instead looks at Burr, considering.

“You okay? You seem off this morning.”

Burr’s in no mood to share his existential crisis, but is in no mood to craft much of a lie, either.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly _not_.”

“Drank too much last night.”

“Cuz you missed me?”

Burr looks up from his desk at Hamilton, who’s smiling. He smiles back for a moment before his foul mood chimes in: _it can’t last_. He waits too long to answer, and the smile drops off Hamilton’s face, he moves closer.

“Aaron…”

Burr can’t do it. He’s wallowing, but he doesn’t want to drag Hamilton into it, he doesn’t want to be made to explain himself or his fears. So he smiles. It’s forced, closer to a grimace than a smile, but he keeps it there.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says. Hamilton’s standing near where Burr is seated, and Burr tilts his head to look up at him, “I’m okay, really. Just hungover and tired. And yes, I missed you.”

He reaches out and takes Hamilton’s hand, entwines their fingers. His smile feels more genuine, now.

“Well,” Hamilton says, “you have me now.”

His thumb strokes over the back of Burr’s hand, with his free hand he cups Burr’s face, looks at him. The eye contact makes Burr edgy, sure Hamilton would be able to read the anxiety written there, so he pulls Hamilton to him, kisses him, an act meant partially to distract. It works well – too well – because Burr ends up distracted himself as Hamilton’s tongue slips into his mouth, kissing more deeply than he’d intended, lost in him for the moment, until all of a sudden there’s a knock at the door.

Burr jerks back so violently his chair topples over; sending him spilling him onto the hardwood floor, hitting his head hard enough that for a moment the lightning-sharp flash of pain is all he knows. There’s a creak as the door opens, and a familiar voice, inquiring.

“Hello? Aaron?”

Burr is picking himself off the floor as Theodosia steps in, followed by a man Burr assumes is her new husband. There’s no baby or children in tow, Burr guesses they were left with a sitter.

“Ah, Theo, hi,” Burr says, aware he’s breathing a bit heavily, flushed and disheveled, and now, bruised.

“Are you okay? Aaron, I think--” Theodosia steps forward, head cocked, then wets her thumb and draws it across Burr’s temple, where it comes away red, “Aaron, you’re bleeding.”

“I’m fine, just…was startled. The damn chair’s a deathtrap.”

“Always blaming others for your own disasters,” interjects Hamilton, extending a hand to Theodosia, “I’m Alexander Hamilton. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Theodosia,” she says, “and this is my husband, Isaac.”

Isaac shakes hands with both Burr and Hamilton, a strong grip that Burr tries to match. He’s curious about the man Theodosia chose as her husband. Isaac’s handsome, slim, with close-cropped hair and an easy smile, and when Burr looks him up and down Isaac meets his gaze steadfastly with his own dark brown eyes.

“Please, sit down,” Burr says, gesturing them to the small table, sits down beside Hamilton.

“We didn’t mean to interrupt,” she says, “but I’m afraid we’re in need of legal advice.”

“What’s wrong?” Burr asks. He hopes Isaac’s not in trouble with the law; lord knows Theodosia’s been through enough with the men in her life. He feels a trickle of warmth on his cheek. Without his asking, Hamilton passes him a handkerchief. Burr glances at him and smiles, grateful, before wiping discreetly at the still-bleeding wound on his face.

“It’s our landlord,” she begins, “he keeps raising the rent on us. We keep a small house, and it’s gone up almost double in the year. I’ve asked around, and the people nearby in similar homes are paying a fraction of what we are…”

Theodosia continues on, with Isaac occasionally adding details she’d missed. Burr promises to draft a letter for their landlord, which will hopefully end things, but agrees to prepare for court, should it come to that.

“As for payment…” she begins, but Hamilton cuts her off.

“None needed. Consider it a favor for a friend.”

Theodosia tries to protest.

“Not having it,” Hamilton says, “letter’s _pro bono_. Now, if it goes to court, we may accept payment in pints…”

“Deal,” says Isaac, and they rise, shaking hands again. Theodosia hugs Burr, and, to Burr’s surprise, hugs Hamilton as well.

“Thank you for everything,” she says as she pulls back. Burr notices Isaac’s hand go to her back, resting there.

“It’s just a letter--” Hamilton protests.

“For the letter,” she agrees, “and for keeping Aaron alive.”

“Ah, well, that went both ways.”

“He told me some of it. Maybe I’ll get your side of the story sometime.”

Theodosia and Isaac depart, and Hamilton closes the door behind them, turns and faces Burr.

“I think I love her.”

Burr laughs.

“You love anyone who praises you.”

“True. But I see why you liked her. You clearly have a thing for intelligent, beautiful people…”

Burr rolls his eyes. His head still throbs, and when he thinks too much about how careless they’d been, how _reckless_ , it throbs worse, but Hamilton’s brightness is distracting, casting out Burr’s own darkness, if only for a moment.

 

***

 

They’re barely in the door to Burr’s house when Hamilton is all over him, grabbing Burr’s ass and pulling him close.

“I missed you,” he says, the words mumbled against Burr’s neck.

“You were gone for one night,” Burr says.

“One incredibly long, hard, lonely night…” Hamilton corrects, hand moving to the front of Burr’s breeches.

“Long,” Hamilton breathes into his ear, palm moving in circles, fingers grasping through the fabric, “and _hard_.”

“This is terrible dirty talk.”

“Some parts of you beg to disagree.”

Some parts of him are a traitor. Hamilton unfastens Burr’s breeches, slips his hand in, and Burr moans. _Hard_ is certainly an apt descriptor.

Hamilton ceases his dirty talk, occupies his mouth against Burr’s skin instead, undressing him. Burr guides them back to the bedroom, which had felt terribly empty last night with only his vile thoughts for company. Hamilton sits at the edge of the bed and Burr stands over him, legs slotted in between Hamilton’s parted thighs.

“I missed you, too,” he tells Hamilton, pressing close. They stay like that for a moment, and Burr rolls his hips against Hamilton. The angle isn't right, Hamilton sitting and Burr standing, the bed too low to the ground, but Burr thrills at any contact with Hamilton’s body. He eventually guides him backward, lays him prone on the bed. Burr stays between Hamilton’s legs, lays kisses on his hips and inner thighs. He finally takes Hamilton’s cock into his mouth, hand sliding over the wet shaft. As he drops his head lower, takes more of Hamilton into his mouth, his other hand traces lightly over Hamilton’s balls, strokes briefly over the stretch of skin beneath. Hamilton makes another noise at that, so Burr repeats the motion. He moves lower this time, and his finger grazes across Hamilton’s hole. Burr tenses for a moment, worried he’s crossed some strange line, but Hamilton’s hips cant upward, encouraging, so he strokes again, more deliberate, finger drawing a small circle around the rim. Hamilton’s growing louder now, hips still moving.

“Fuck, Aaron,” he says, “please--”

Burr withdraws his mouth from Hamilton’s cock and spits on his finger, rocks back a bit so he can see better, leaving Hamilton’s unattended-to cock leaking against his stomach. He touches his slick finger against Hamilton, presses just slightly, and is surprised at the ease with which it slides in, just to the first knuckle. Hamilton groans and thrusts his hips again, and Burr takes Hamilton’s cock in his free hand. He moves his finger slightly, marveling at the heat and tightness, marveling that he is _inside_ Hamilton. He moves his finger in deeper, feels a rougher edge against his fingertip, and when he drags across it the noise Hamilton makes is bestial.

“Did I hurt you?”

“No,” Hamilton pants, “no, do it again. _Please_.”

Burr does, rubbing at him slowly. He withdraws his hand, adds more spit and a second finger, which stretches Hamilton – almost too much – but Burr stays almost still inside him, only rocking his fingertips in rhythm with his strokes on Hamilton’s cock, Hamilton writhing and making all sorts of wonderful sounds. Burr feels Hamilton tighten against his fingers, feels hands scrabble at his back, and Hamilton comes with a shout, spilling messy over Burr’s hand and his own stomach. Burr withdraws his hand carefully, winces at the slight drag of skin, though Hamilton seems too blissed-out to react.

When Burr comes up alongside him Hamilton kisses him sloppily, a grin on his face.

“Please tell me,” Hamilton says, “that you’ll do that again. Maybe with better lube next time.”

“Gladly,” Burr says, and Hamilton strokes his fingers over Burr’s neck, down his back, and then Hamilton moves downward, his motions less than graceful post-orgasm, but when he takes Burr into his mouth he’s lost none of his grace. Burr fucks up into Hamilton’s mouth and Hamilton moans at that, a low reverberation Burr feels in every inch of his cock. Hamilton draws back a little, brings up his hand to cover Burr’s shaft, and allows his tongue to really work, flicks and circles at the head of Burr’s cock, and Burr shouts Hamilton’s name when he comes.

 

***

 

“They invited us over for dinner,” Hamilton says one night as they’re washing up after supper.

“Who did?” Burr asks. Hamilton does that sometimes, starts conversations that were already half-formed in his head.

“Theodosia and Isaac. As a thank you for helping out with their case. We saved them a ton of money.”

“Oh, I’m not sure--”

“I said yes already. Are you just jealous that Theodosia wants me? Isaac probably does to, and I wouldn’t kick him out of bed…”

Burr flicks water at him. Wishes for a pond, or an ocean.

“What, am I not enough for you?”

Hamilton wraps a wet arm around Burr’s waist, kisses him.

“You’re plenty. But I can appreciate that Theodosia is hot. And fucking smart. Smarter than you, definitely.”

“No argument there. So when’s the dinner?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?!”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you should have too much time to think about it. You overthink.”

Burr sighs. The idea of dinner does make him uneasy, though not for the reasons Hamilton had teased about. Ever since the near-miss Theodosia had walked in on at their office, she had watched him differently, a way that Burr had sensed in their subsequent meetings about their case, but one could not entirely explain. She’d watched him like she was working out a puzzle. And Hamilton wasn’t exaggerating, she _was_ devastatingly smart, not to mention the fact that they had not exactly been inconspicuous in the office, with Burr bashing his head on the floor and Hamilton with his hair messy and cheeks flushed. The kind of thing you’d find in the dictionary under ‘guilty.’

“I think…” Burr begins, but trails off.

“Yes?”

“Never mind.”

He keeps his thoughts to himself, tries to put his worries in the corner of his mind, but that night, like water, they leak out, spilling across and into his fitful dreams.

 

***

“How do I look?”

Hamilton’s dressed in the same fine green coat that had caught Burr’s eye at the Levi Weeks trial, blindingly white cravat spilling like froth at his throat, shoes polished to mirror sheen.

“Resplendent,” Burr replies. Hamilton grins at the compliment.

“Perfect. I have to impress Theodosia…”

Burr groans.

“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled. Now quit preening, we’re gonna be late.”

Hamilton kisses him instead, a kiss Burr returns eagerly, though when Hamilton’s hands wander downward Burr grabs his wrist.

“Later,” he says, “but we really are going to be late. Go grab the wine.”

Hamilton pouts for a moment, an expression Burr can’t help but kiss off of him before fastening a button that had come undone.

They make it to the house on time – no thanks to Hamilton – but before Burr can even knock the door is flung open and a bright-eyed girl, no older than ten, rushes out to hug Burr before he even realizes what’s happening.

“Mr. Burr! Mr. Burr! We missed you, we’re so glad you’re alive, look how tall I am—oh!”

She realizes Hamilton is there, and her exuberance quiets, she extends her skirt in an exaggerated curtsey.

“I’m Mary Louisa Prevost,” she says, still arranged in her curtsey.

Hamilton offers a bow of his own.

“Pleased to meet you, Mary.”

“Mary _Louisa_ ,” she corrects, and the cold admonishment in her tone makes Burr grin. Her mother’s child, no doubt about it.

“Mary Louisa,” Burr interjects, “would you please tell your mother we’re here?”

She scurries off, and Burr looks over at Hamilton, laughing at the shocked expression on his face.

“One of Theodosia’s children,” he explains, “from her earlier marriage.”

There’d been a mess of them, though the others were older. Burr hadn’t known them as well, had met them on the tail end of their teenage years as they lit off into marriages and jobs of their own, with Mary Louisa left behind as the baby of the family. Well, until Theodosia's newest baby, the one Burr has yet to meet.

Mary Louisa returns, Theodosia in tow. On Theodosia’s hip is a smiling baby, no doubt the same one Burr had heard squalling when he’d first paid visit to Theodosia upon returning.

“Welcome,” Theodosia says, kissing their cheeks briefly, then turns her head to the baby, who looks at Burr with deep brown eyes that he swears he’s seen somewhere before, “this is Theodosia.”

“We call her Theo,” adds Mary Louisa, extending a hand for the baby to grasp.

“She looks like you,” Burr says to Theodosia.

“Mom says she’s the dead spit of her, and that’s why they named her Theodosia too. I think spit’s gross,” Mary Lousia says, still cooing at her sister but not willing to be left out of the conversation. The baby extends her arms out for her sister, and Theodosia carefully passes the baby over, where she is promptly smothered in kisses from her older sister. Theodosia watches them with a smile.

“I’d worried,” she said, voice low, “Mary Louisa was the baby for so long, I didn’t know how she’d do with a younger sibling. But she took to it like a fish to water. I think she was lonely.”

Dinner is delicious, if a bit chaotic – Theo throws a fit halfway through and Mary Louisa spills her water glass on Isaac’s lap in a rush to comfort her baby sister. But it’s an easy chaos, and Burr’s happy to be in it. He notices the way Isaac looks at Theodosia throughout the dinner, how he kisses the top of her head before sitting back down after drying himself, the way he takes her hand. Burr still hasn’t spoken to him much – both men too withdrawn to do much with one another – but it’s obvious in the way he acts around Theodosia and the children that there’s nowhere else he’d rather be. And Burr’s glad for it, glad Theodosia has finally found a decent man.

 

***

 

After dinner, when the children are put to bed, Hamilton invites Isaac outside for a cigar.

“All the way from the Caribbean,” Hamilton says, “just like me.”

Burr rolls his eyes at the joke, but Isaac laughs, and agrees, and the two men step outside, leaving Theodosia and Burr alone in the kitchen. Burr suspects this had been purposeful on Hamilton’s part.

“So,” she says, “you and Mr. Hamilton are working well together?”

A loaded question.

“The business has done well,” Burr says. Better than well, really, it’s been far more successful than he’d expected. Bills are actually paid on time, with a bit left over for them each to draw a meager salary.

“That too,” she says, a small smile on her lips.

Burr looks at her, feels his heart thudding in his chest.

“We forget,” she says idly, “all the small intimacies that manifest when you’re together.”

She looks elsewhere as she says it, doesn’t meet his eyes. She’d learned quickly in their time together that he spoke better when she looked elsewhere.

“Look,” Burr says, “I don’t know what you’re implying--”

His voice rises slightly, an edge of defensiveness, something frantic, guilty.

“Aaron--”

“Alex and I, we’re just…it’s just – well, it’s complicated.”

“Aaron,” she says again, “it’s fine.”

He looks at her.

“We’re just--”

The protests feel weak on his tongue.

“Aaron. I don’t care. It’s your life, and you can’t choose who you love.”

A brief expression – something vaguely sad – crosses her features for a moment. She takes his hand and squeezes it briefly, and Burr savors the warmth of her touch.

“Besides,” she says, and laughs, “no woman could compare to me, so it kinda makes sense.”

Burr groans. No wonder Hamilton likes Theodosia so much.

“How…?” he trails off.

“The way you spoke about him when you first called on me. There was a light in your eyes.”

_We weren’t even together at that point_ , Burr thinks. But even then, she had known. Too damn smart.

“And when Isaac and I came to the office...it was obvious we’d caught you in the middle of something. And then…the small things, Aaron. The way he looks at you. Hands you a handkerchief before you even know you need one. Straightens your collar. Isaac had his doubts, but he doesn’t know you as I do…”

Burr blanches.

“Isaac knows?”

It’s one thing for Theodosia to know – she’s never been one for convention, and if Burr had to pick someone to know, it would have been her, anyway. But her husband? A man Burr barely knows, a soldier?

Theodosia has the good grace to look abashed.

“Isaac doesn’t care either, I promise--”

“Soldiers talk, Theo.”

“Look,” she sighs, “since I have one of your relationship secrets, I’ll give you one of mine. Isaac wasn’t always Isaac.”

Burr looks at her, confused.

“He used to be named Isabella.”

“You mean Isaac’s a woman?”

“No,” she says, voice firm, an icy edge to it, “Isaac’s a man. Always had been. Just has different bits than you, is all.”

Burr is flabbergasted.

‘So,” he says, “Isaac…”

Theodosia’s gaze is nothing short of challenging. Burr’s still turning it around in his head.

“So if he’s got…different parts…”

“You’re getting there.”

The other shoe drops.

“Theo’s mine.”

“Well,” Theodosia says, “you got me pregnant before you left, if that’s what you mean. But Theo’s mine, Aaron. Mine and Isaac’s.”

It make sense now, why Burr had kept glancing at the baby, how there’d been something about her he couldn’t quite place – the eyes. He’d been looking at a piece of himself.

“So there, Aaron. You have two of my life secrets for one of yours. Now do you trust the secret’s safe with me?”

Burr takes her hand, squeezes it. Outside, distantly, he can hear laughter, and catch a faint whiff of smoke.

“I trust you.”

“You’d damn well better.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ends a little abruptly but the chapter is already longer than I intended SO. Will hopefully not be as long in between updates, but I can't promise anything.
> 
> notes:  
> \- not that is really matters but [this](https://supreme.justia.com/cases/federal/us/1/81/) is the case I based Theodosia and Isaac's case on. Not that I cover it at all, but the point is, there was some actual research.  
> \- Theodosia and her first husband had five kids, including a girl named Mary Lousia. I'm not really sure what their actual ages would be when this is fic is based, so, uhh...making that up!  
> \- "The dead spit of me" is from Emma Donoghue's truly incredible book, [Room](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Room_\(novel\)).  
> \- Finally, because this is a place where I Share things, in June I tested for my Level 2 Krav Maga Instructor certification, a three day physically draining ordeal that took place in the midsouth in a warehouse, with no A/C, that left me physically and mentally broken for quite awhile, which is part of the reason it took so dang long to get back at this fic. But hey, I passed.
> 
> thank you all for reading and sticking with me and for the lovely messages and comments <3


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Burr receives a letter with no return address, an envelope fashioned from fine cream paper, his name written across the front in an elegant hand Burr recognizes immediately. He waits until he’s home to open it, heart beating just a bit too quickly as he breaks the seal and pulls out the letter within."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always: slow and steady. Just as a heads up, this chapter is a little...melancholic? Death mentions, and sadness, but no actual death, just bad feelings.

“She knows,” Burr tells Hamilton that night, as they lay in bed, “about us.”

“Well,” Hamilton says, “you didn’t exactly scream innocent, sprawled out all disheveled on the office floor…”

“It was more than that. I think she knew as soon as I talked to her about you, when I was talking about our time on the island. It was clear I liked you.”

“Aww, you _like_ me.”

“Well, I don’t dislike you, Alex.”

Hamilton rolls to the side and kisses him, and Burr can feel Hamilton’s grin beneath the kiss. It’s silent, for a moment, and then Hamilton speaks again.

“Does it bother you?”

“Does what bother me?”

“That she knows?”

Burr considers. The first thing he’d felt was panic, heart crashing wildly in his chest as Theodosia alluded to her deductions. But once it was clear Theodosia didn’t mind – that she had her own secrets, in fact – he’d felt a sort of relief in knowing that this fear had been realized, and had not been so bad, after all. He realizes, of course, that she is an exception – liberal-minded, progressive, dangerously smart – but still. She knows, and he is still alive, still with Hamilton, their relationship undamaged even with someone else knowing of it.

“No,” he says, then, “yes. I don’t know. I guess I’m glad someone knows. Proof I’m not just making you up in my head.”

Hamilton scoffs.

“As if you’re creative enough to dream up anything as fantastic as me.”

Burr groans.

“Go to sleep, Alex.”

“Kiss me goodnight, first.”

Burr gladly obliges.

 

***

 

Burr receives a letter with no return address, an envelope fashioned from fine cream paper, his name written across the front in an elegant hand Burr recognizes immediately. He waits until he’s home to open it, heart beating just a bit too quickly as he breaks the seal and pulls out the letter within.

> _Dear Aaron,_
> 
> _I hope this letter finds you in good health, and in a better position than you were in when we departed. How’s that law practice of yours? I do hope you and Mr. Hamilton are finding some success in that particular field._
> 
> _I know my previous letter was a thing unanswerable, given the lack of a contact for myself (one loves and hates this transient lifestyle). However, I am very pleased to inform you that I have procured an address to which you may write - and I do hope you will write - and perhaps carry on a correspondence, assuming you weren’t simply pretending to like me. I also hope that in the time since you received my last letter that you and Mr. Hamilton have, shall we say, reconciled. You both still come up in our conversations - inquiring minds want to know, and all that - though you’re less the subject of gossip now, as we have moved on to other things. However, I do still miss our conversations, and remain curious as to the outcome of your situation with Mr. Hamilton, and am afraid I cannot rest until that curiosity is satisfied._
> 
> _(I am, of course, curious as to other things about you, too, but I’m enough of a gentleman to let such things lie.)_
> 
> _Below, Aaron, is the address of a friend of a friend who agreed to receive my post until such a time that I can return and receive it. Do write to me._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _John_

There's a name under it, the address of a post office, which Burr notes as he puts the letter down. He hadn't quite realized that he'd missed Higgins - or, more precisely, _how_ much he had missed Higgins - until reading the letter, the vague pretentious air of it mimicking Higgins's own dry tones.

His finger brushes over the letter, and he thinks, _you were right_.

Higgins had seen what Burr could not - or, more accurately, what he hadn’t let himself see. And would Burr have pursued this particular avenue were it not for Higgins's encouragement? He might have. He isn't sure, though. And to that, he supposes he is grateful to the pirate, for his words - _of a more similar mind than you led me to believe, or indeed, then you may yourself believe_. He rereads the letter, then folds it carefully and places it back in the envelope. Though he's eager to write back now - part of his mind already composing a reply - he knows Hamilton will be over soon.

When Hamilton arrives, Burr doesn't tell him about the letter, though he isn't quite sure why. He hadn't told Hamilton about Higgins's first letter, either. It hadn't been an outright lie - Hamilton had not asked (though why would he?). He knows Hamilton had not been overly fond of Higgins, though he thinks now it may have been because of jealousy. Hamilton had not confessed that fact to Burr (too proud, no doubt), but looking back on their time on the ship with all the clarity of hindsight, knowing what he now knows – mainly, that Hamilton thought Burr had been the one to unilaterally end their affair - he wonders if Hamilton didn't think Higgins was angling for Burr, and vice versa. Wouldn’t have been particularly wrong on that account, either. He wonders what the whole thing looked like, through Hamilton's eyes, recalls with a flush how Hamilton had burst into the cargo hold of the ship after Higgins had left, the fleeting, frantic look that had crossed his face, like he’d dreaded something.

God, how could Burr not have seen it?

Regardless - he is in no rush to bring Higgins's name back up with Hamilton, so he doesn't mention it, and soon enough Hamilton has him so distracted that he forgets entirely about the letter, anyway.

 

***

 

"I've got an idea," Hamilton says over breakfast one Saturday morning.

"Oh?"

_I've got an idea_ is always a worrisome thing to hear from Hamilton, so Burr steels himself.

"A place I want to go. And I want you to come with me."

"Where?"

"I want to see my grave."

"Jesus, Alex, why?"

"Washington said they buried me at Trinity Church. I want to see it."

"Don't you think that's morbid?"

"Aaron, we should fucking be dead. We're not. We're miracles. How many people get to see their own graves?"

"How many people would _want_ to?"

Burr’s seen enough people die. He has no desire to see his own grave. Or Hamilton’s, for that matter. But Hamilton seems unaffected by Burr’s reluctance.

"Well, I do. And I want you to come with me."

"Why?"

"Because it's thanks to you that no one's buried in it."

They don't talk much about how fortunate their situation really is. Hell, Burr tries not to even _think_ about it too closely, it makes him feel dizzy. There were so many chances for things to go wrong, so many chances for them to die, lost at sea or on a nameless island. It's a miracle they made it out alive at all, and sometimes Burr worries that if he thinks about it too much, tries to parse out every piece of luck and circumstance that kept them alive, it will all crumble under such scrutiny. But Hamilton is looking at him, big brown eyes as wide as they’ll go, and Burr sighs, helpless before that begging gaze.

"All right, I'll go."

Hamilton kisses him in the kind of way that reminds Burr just how much he'll do for him. Love makes fools of us all.

They get dressed and walk to Trinity Church. It's colder than Burr had anticipated. The winter had been surprisingly mild thus far, but the way the cold air nips into his skin he suspects the mildness is over. Burr glances up at the cloudy gray sky and finds himself longing for the hot Caribbean sun. They slip through the gate and wander the gravestones, reading the names and weaving the narrow dirt path worn down by mourners.

Burr's the one to find Hamilton's gravestone, and he isn't ready for the way it makes his stomach lurch, reading the epitaph:

> _To the Memory Of_
> 
> _Alexander Hamilton_
> 
> _The SOLDIER of approved VALOUR_
> 
> _May his Soul find rest at Sea_

It's short, reflecting Hamilton's youth - in time, Burr has no doubt there would have been other accomplishments that might have adorned it. It makes Burr ill, the shortness of it. The permanence of stone.

“It looks real,” he says, before he can stop himself, and as Hamilton opens his mouth to speak he adds, “I know, it is real. I just mean…”

_Look at how we could have lost you. How I could have lost you._

Hamilton looks at him with a great tenderness, then reaches out and squeezes Burr’s hand.

“It’s not real. Thanks to you. You gave me more time, Aaron.”

The whole situation feels surreal and dizzying and _heavy_. Burr’s knees feel weak and it takes everything he has to keep standing, to not sink to his knees like some grieving widow in front of an empty grave. His breathing comes quicker as his mind displays all the ways he could have lost Hamilton, or been lost from him.

“I’m here,” says Hamilton, placing his hand on Burr’s shoulder, warm and _there_ , “Aaron, I’m right here.”

Here, now.

“I’m glad,” says Burr, and Hamilton guides them away, and with every step away from the gravestone Burr feels better. Steadier.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “it’s just...seeing it like that, writ in stone…”

“Don’t worry,” says Hamilton, and bumps his shoulder against Burr, “I plan on having a much longer epitaph before they get me again.”

 

***

 

That unsettled feeling remains with Burr, follows him like a shadow as they finish out the rest of their errands, and finally return back to Burr’s home. As soon as they're in the doorway, Burr grabs Hamilton, kisses him, roves his hands over Hamilton’s body, as if to reassure himself that Hamilton is real, Hamilton is _here,_ that he is not there in the graveyard they had visited. The shadow seems to disappear with every inch of skin Burr touches, with every bit of pressure under his lips.

“ _Please_ tell me that seeing my grave wasn't a turn on,” Hamilton says, once Burr gives them a moment to breathe.

“Maybe once upon a time,” Burr jokes, and Hamilton shoves him playfully.

“And you get on me for bad dirty talk,” Hamilton complains.

“Maybe we shouldn't talk at all.”

Burr has other things he'd rather use his mouth for, anyway.

He takes Hamilton to the bedroom, undresses him eagerly, covers every part of Hamilton he can with his hands and mouth. Hamilton’s skin is warm under his fingertips, flushed with arousal, and when Burr pauses for a moment, resting his head against Hamilton’s chest, he hears the faint thud of Hamilton’s heartbeat. He inhales deeply, finally feels steady for the first time since seeing that damn gravestone. He stays there longer than he should, paused in the moment, listening to the life of Hamilton taking place beneath his chest. He isn’t aware that he’s closed his eyes until he feels a hand on his cheek, opens his eyes to meet Hamilton’s concerned brown ones.

“You all right?” Hamilton asks.

“I am now. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Me too.”

Burr moves his head from Hamilton’s chest then, and continues to move downward, takes Hamilton into his mouth and quickly brings him to a sweet hardness, tasting the faint slick of precum on his tongue. He gets his forefinger wet and is lightly stroking at Hamilton’s rim when Hamilton pulls back.

“Hold on,” Hamilton says, and leans over to open the nightstand drawer, where he withdraws a small bottle of oil - when had _that_ appeared there? -  proffers it to Burr.

“Might make things easier,” he says, and Burr takes it, tentatively pours it over his first two fingers before resuming his prior activities.

It’s messy, but when Burr slides his finger into Hamilton, it’s much easier, and a second joins it quickly. Hamilton’s breathing fast now, as Burr’s fingers crook and drag over him, mouth working in tandem. Encouraged, Burr adds a third finger, stretching Hamilton, feeling him tight against his fingers. He stops once, to add more oil, then resumes his ministrations. The feeling of being inside Hamilton, even just a few fingers, has him hard and he grinds against the messy sheets as he flicks his tongue over him.

Hamilton comes with a shout, the orgasm seeming to go on and on, and Burr continues to fuck his fingers into Hamilton until he feels a hand on his arm.

“Mercy,” Hamilton groans, then laughs, an uncontrollable lightness. He pulls Burr up in a sloppy motion, kisses him deeply before letting his head fall back to the pillow, a smile radiating on his face.

“I’m afraid I may need that headstone after all,” Hamilton says, “because I think you just killed me.”

“Someone was bound to,” Burr replies, and Hamilton groans.

“Let me _bask,_ god.”

“Am I stopping you?”

Instead of answering, Hamilton trails his fingertips over Burr, feather-light, the kind of teasing that inevitably makes Burr squirm, a fact Hamilton had quickly learned and just as quickly delighted in. The light touches continue over his chest, his hips, the inside of his thighs, everywhere but his rapidly-hardening cock. When Hamilton finally takes him in hand, his strokes are still light, easy, and Burr bites his lips to refrain from cursing.

“I love how much you want me,” Hamilton says, thumb flicking lightly over the slit of Burr’s cock, “and I love watching your squirm.”

Burr’s not sure he has the words for a retort.

Hamilton continues his teasing game, and just as Burr is about to beg for his own kind of mercy, he rolls to his side, pulls at Burr’s arm to follow until they’re spooning, hand then reaching back and guiding Burr’s cock in between his thighs.

Hamilton’s still slick and messy from the oil, and Burr thrusts eagerly, watching his cock disappear into the expanse of flesh. Hamilton moves again, rolls over onto his knees and elbows, thighs still pressed together, and as Burr drives in Hamilton thrusts his hips back, and Burr thinks about that tight, wet heat contracting around his fingers, which is what pushes him over the edge.

“Alex, _fuck_ , Alex-”

He comes - adding to their truly wrecked bedsheets - and collapses on the bed next to him. It feels like every part of him has some unspeakable fluid on it, wrecked, but Burr thinks it’s the kind of mess he can live with, if it means he keeps getting to do these things with Hamilton.

They change the sheets and clean up the best they can, though when he crawls into bed Burr still feels a faint tackiness on his groin. Hamilton butts up against him as they sleep, Burr’s arm draped over him, and he is grateful, for the tenth or hundredth time, that Hamilton has not left him.

 

***

 

“Aaron, guess what?” Hamilton announces brightly as Burr walks into the office, though he answers the question himself, “I’m leaving!”

Burr’s body jolts.

“What?”

“The constitutional convention? Remember? I was begging for an invite, didn’t know if they’d deign to admit a _foreigner_ , but maybe the follow up letters worked because I’m going, Aaron, I’m going-”

Burr takes a breath.

“For how long?”

Hamilton pauses, as if considering this for the first time.

“A few months, at most.”

Burr tries not to let his dismay show. His first, selfish instinct is to ask - to beg - Hamilton not to go, to fall to his knees, to say _no, stay with me_. But this is what Hamilton’s dreamed of. Burr hasn’t forgotten the ideas Hamilton shared with him on the island, when they were in the infancy of their friendship, how he’d come alive in the firelight, hands waving as he laid out ideas for a new form of government. Burr can’t deny him that, he’s a fool for even thinking it. He swallows. He can be alone.

And he can hope, desperately, that Hamilton will not forget him when the distance is stretched between them. So Burr swallows, and embraces Hamilton. He tries to smile, and then the smile becomes real, because Hamilton’s grinning and _alive_ , and will finally have an audience.

Burr’s happy for him. Really, he is.

(And if the months ahead suddenly seem bleak, if the fact he very pointedly did not receive an invite, _well_ \-- never mind that.)

“I’m happy for you Alex,” he says, and he is - but he’s a lot of other things, too. Hamilton finally seems to realize this, features softening, and he cups his hand under Burr’s chin.

“I don’t leave for a while yet,” he says, “and I’ll miss you quite dreadfully. But you’ll have your hands full with the office, and I’ll be back in no time.”

Burr knows this. And he knows the convention isn't as far away as it could be - only Philadelphia - but it feels like an ocean away.

He swallows this down, and takes Hamilton’s chin in his hand, looking him in the eye.

“You’re doing it, Alex,” he says, “just like you talked about. Changing the world. And I’m so, so proud of you.”

Hamilton smiles, and Burr notices his eyes shining wet, but before he can look too long Hamilton’s embracing him, face buried in his shoulder, and Burr simply stands there, holding him.

 

***

 

Time passes too quickly, after that; whenever Burr tries to slow it down it’s as if he’s grabbing handfuls of water, impossible to hang on to. Hamilton’s busy, preoccupied with getting his trip and ideas in order, which makes Burr feel as if a part of him is already gone. Hamilton certainly doesn’t seem to share in Burr’s anxiety, and Burr hopes this is simply because he’s busy getting ready for the convention, and not because he doesn’t care.

It’s not that Hamilton isn’t convincing in his tenderness for Burr, when they’re finally alone in Burr’s house Hamilton is more than attentive, generous in his kisses and eager with his hands. He waxes poetic about Burr’s beauty, even, which still makes Burr feel like some blushing maiden. But as attentive as Hamilton is, Burr knows part of his mind is already elsewhere, and this is what keeps him up at night.

Burr is so wrapped up in this anxiety that it takes him weeks before deciding what to pen in response to Higgins’s letter. Abashment also plays a part in his delay, for Higgins had been right - god, had he been right - and Burr’s never been fond of eating crow, but it’s something he must come to terms with. He’s grateful, perhaps even indebted to Higgins, who had seen what Burr had refused to let himself see, who had passed on a small bit of gossip that may have tipped the scale.

_John_ , he begins, pauses, then adds _Dear_ ,

> _Dear John,_
> 
> _I lack the words to adequately express my delight at receiving another letter from you, as your first was welcomed, and indeed intrinsic to events that followed. You were correct, it seems, on the reciprocity of my feelings, and Mr. Hamilton and I have indeed reconciled, and are currently working together quite brilliantly._
> 
> _I hope you and Mr. Trumbull are also working well together. I’m a bit surprised to find myself missing the ship (and its company) - after my previous ordeals, who would have thought a part of me would miss it, much less desire a return? It may simply be the anticipation of loneliness, as Mr. Hamilton will soon be at the Constitutional Convention, helping shape our new nation into some semblance of a country. While I am excited for him and this opportunity, I find myself a bit melancholic at the idea of having to work alone for many months._
> 
> _Do not be surprised if you find yourself receiving many such letters for me - though you will likely receive them all at once, whenever you are in port to receive such mail - for there are few souls here who are privy to my workload._
> 
> _And thank you, John. Your previous letter was instrumental in events that unfolded, and for that (and so much else), I am grateful._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Aaron_

He posts the letter the next day, and though he knows it will be weeks, if not months, before a response, he’s glad there’s something in the future he can look forward to.

 

***

 

As they approach the last few weeks before Hamilton’s’ departure, Burr finds himself less and less able to get work done; he’ll have a pen in his hand and paper before him with no idea what he’d intended to write. It’s better, when face to face with clients, because there he has an audience which forces him to school himself into some semblance of competent, but with paperwork, his mind drifts too easily, distracted by Hamilton’s presence, achingly aware of the hours slipping away. He’s in such a state now, watching as Hamilton shuffles through papers at the office, occasionally mumbling to himself but not saying anything to Burr. Burr is supposed to be working, but he’s distracted, fretting, and figures he’ll have plenty of time to work when Hamilton is gone. So he takes the moment to lean his elbows on his desk, watching Hamilton in his preoccupied state, and is actually a bit surprised when he hears his name as part of Hamilton’s mutterings.

“Pardon?”

“I said, are you in contact with John Higgins?”

Burr sits upright.

“What?”

“John Higgins. Are you in contact with him?”

Burr thinks of the letter he sent - still unanswered, though it hadn’t been long - and flushes, feeling the smallest bit of guilt. Not that there’d been anything untoward in his letter (and only a hint of untowardness from Higgins), but still, he hadn’t mentioned it to Hamilton, had he?

“Why?” he says, without thinking. His cheeks feel hot. Hamilton finally looks at him, which makes his cheeks feel hotter still, an absurd guilt.

“Well,” Hamilton says, “I wanted to ask him some clarifications on the pirate code. I read it on the ship, and it was fascinating, and I think some of those ideas might be translatable into our constitution -”

Burr recalls this, faintly, how Hamilton had mentioned reading it when Burr had come into the ship’s office to apologize.

“- but from that look on your face I’m wondering if I should be asking other questions.”

Hamilton doesn’t sound angry, and the words aren’t accusatory. Burr finds comfort in this, and uses it to shape his response.

“Yes, he’s written to me a few times, and there’s an address where he says he can receive letters. I never mentioned it because you were always so cold to him on the ship; I thought you hated him…”

Hamilton’s face softens, and he leaves his work at the desk to come closer, take Burr’s hand.

“Well,” he says, “admittedly, I was a bit jealous of him on the ship, because he was constantly eye-fucking you, and the way you were flirting with him after you rejected me--”

“I didn’t--” Burr begins to protest, and Hamilton holds up his free hand.

“After you rejected me _because you mistakenly thought I’d rejected you first which was totally wrong_ , whatever, you were flirting with him and ignoring me so yeah, of course I was jealous, but I’ve got you now, so no hard feelings. He’s got good taste in men, I’ll give him that.”

Burr flushes for a different reason, at that.

“So you’re not mad?”

“What’s there to be mad about? Are you hiding an affair? Would you rather be with him than me?”

“No, of course not, I-”

“Then I'm not mad, Aaron. There’s nothing to be mad about. So, can I have the address?”

Burr writes it from memory, though he double checks it against the letter in his desk drawer. Hamilton thanks him with a lingering kiss that leaves Burr’s stomach in knots, and then sets to drafting a letter of obscure questions about the pirate code and how one could best translate it into the democracy of a new nation.

 

***

 

Their last night before Hamilton is set to leave is dark and largely sleepless, as they lay side by side, quiet until a voice breaks through.

“It’s only a few months,” Hamilton says.

“I know,” Burr replies.

It’s the same mantra they’ve repeated to one  another for months now, taking turns, convincing each other as much as themselves. Burr blinks furiously and stares at the ceiling, trying not to cry. He feels a hand slide into his.

“I’ll write,” Hamilton says.

“I know,” Burr replies. This is another mantra they’ve told one another, over and over again, but _I know_ doesn’t mean _I’m okay_.

There’s nothing either one can do, and Burr knows this, too. Hamilton will leave, and take his brilliance into Philadelphia, and Burr will stay behind, and continue to grow their law practice. Eventually, Hamilton will return, and then –

It’s the _and then_ that scares Burr. The fear that Hamilton will return a changed and unfamiliar man, that the popularity he’ll no doubt gain in this endeavor will lead him to reconsider their relationship. That it will no longer be worth the risk.

(They don’t talk much, of the risk. Of the distance they keep, in public. Of the story they have told their friends, that Hamilton rooms with Burr because the business is too small for him to draw much of a salary, that the arrangement is purely _economical_.)

“I’ll miss you,” Hamilton says. His hand is stroking across Burr’s forehead, down his cheek.

“I’ll miss you, too,” Burr says. Another mantra. Another hopeless truth.

Hamilton needs no light to find Burr’s lips, and they clutch at each other, hands moving across one another, gripping so tight on flesh that Burr can’t help but think of drowning men. Hamilton takes Burr into his hand, fingers running over his cock.

They’d done this twice already, earlier in the evening, and though the mind is willing, the flesh is weak. Still, Hamilton strokes Burr even in his softness, a different kind of pleasure, tender.

The night goes on like that, coming together and sliding apart. They cross a miniature infinity of emotional shades on this last night, laughing, kissing, talking about everything that comes to mind – and touching. They are almost always touching. There are tears, once – Burr’s. But he doesn’t want to talk about it, and so Hamilton pretends not to notice.

Burr must sleep at some point, because when he next opens his eyes the sickly light of dawn is coming through the window. The bed is empty, and he can hear faint sounds in the other room of Hamilton getting ready. Burr gets out of bed, splashes his face with water to rid it of the night’s residues. When he looks at himself in the mirror he looks like a sick man, the shadows under his eyes deep as bruises, a hint of redness in his eyes. He splashes his face again, but it does little good.

He pads into the kitchen, where a cup of coffee waits for him on the table. He sits down and savors the first hot sip of it. Hamilton sits across from him. He looks a good deal better than Burr, save for the dark circles under his eyes – hair brushed to a sheen and pulled into a ponytail, dressed elegantly enough that it distracts from the exhaustion in his face.

“The coach will be here soon,” says Hamilton. It’s not the most arduous journey – two days, if the weather’s good– but he’s still in for many hours in the cramped interior of the coach. Burr takes his hand, remembering fondly their last coach ride, the thrill of Hamilton’s hand brushing his beneath the jacket laid over their laps. When he looks up, he notices Hamilton’s luggage is already at the door, and suddenly the coffee feels like sludge in his stomach. He places his cup back down.

“It’s only a few months,” Burr says.

“I know,” Hamilton replies. The mantra, repeating.

The knock at the door startles them both, and they’re out of their seats in a flash, a remnant of their soldier reflexes. Their eyes meet and Burr sees something like panic in Hamilton’s eyes, and then Hamilton’s kissing him so deeply that Burr can’t breathe. It’s over just as quickly, a lightning strike of affection, and Hamilton’s headed to answer the door, leaving Burr standing alone in the kitchen. There’s no chance for a proper goodbye now, not with the driver in the doorway, impatient to be off. Burr sees Hamilton to coach, and Hamilton extends his hand in farewell. Burr takes it, and feels the brush of Hamilton’s thumb over the back of his hand. He meets Hamilton’s eyes, which are dry but desperately sad, and then he looks away, because the tears are coming again, and he can’t break down, not with the driver watching, _he can’t_ –

“Goodbye, Aaron,” Hamilton says, voice just slightly hoarse.

“Goodbye, Alex. Be safe,” he inhales, gets control of his own voice, “don’t forget to write.”

“I won’t.”

Burr watches Hamilton climb into the coach, watches as the coach rounds the bend and disappears, then promptly turns and retches, nothing coming up but a thick, sour string of spittle, which Burr spits out onto the ground in disgust. Stomach still queasy, he makes his way inside, where two coffee cups sit on the kitchen table, growing cold.

 

***

 

He doesn’t go in to work that morning, spends most of it lying about in the bed, dozing for a few minutes at a time, only to wake confused and somehow more tired than he’d been before. He tries to read, but the words blur and jump about the page so much that he eventually throws the book across the room, a childish display of temper that he immediately feels guilty about. His hands, now empty, shift restlessly, desperate for something to do. He looks over to the desk, which Hamilton had largely claimed as his own (as he did with most open flat spaces, filling them with parchment and books). The desk is filled with paper, and a full inkwell. Burr pulls himself from the couch, sits down at the desk instead. He takes the quill in his hand, considers it, then pulls out a piece of paper, and writes to the one man who might understand his melancholy.

_Dear John_ , he writes, _Mr. Hamilton left for his Convention today, and I’m afraid I’m dealing more poorly than anticipated as I find myself without my colleague –_

It’s calming, to write to Higgins, to express – albeit in roundabout ways – the threat of loneliness, his fears that all this will crumble. He finishes the letter and seals it in an envelope, planning to post it once he feels capable of leaving the house.

By midday, he’s sitting at the kitchen table in the middle of a heated staring contest with a bottle of wine (and losing) when there’s a knock at the door. He ignores it. The knock comes again, then, oddly, seems to redouble, as if his visitor is knocking at the door with both fists. He hears the distant strain of voices through the wood.

“Aaron, open this damn door--”

“Mom, _language_ \--”

Burr gets up and trudges to the door, swings it open before flinching back reflexively at the raised fist, Theodosia standing there, ready to knock again, Theo perched on her hip and Mary Louisa at her side, hands on her own hips.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, “come in.”

Mary Louisa darts in before he even finishes the sentence, makes herself at home in his one of his parlor chairs. Theodosia follows, tipping the baby into Mary Louisa’s arms before turning to Burr and greeting him with a kiss on the cheek.

“Alex asked me to check in on you,” she says, voice low, “said you might be in a mood and could use some distraction.”

“So you brought the family,” he says.

“What’s more distracting than a baby and a nine year old?”

As if on cue, Mary Lousia’s shout fills up the room.

“Mooooom, Theo needs changing, _ew_ \--”

 Theodosia grabs the baby back, hustles her out of the room, bag over her shoulder. Burr sits across from Mary Louisa, who’s watching him intently. The lull doesn’t last long.

“Mom says Mr. Hamilton left,” she says, idly kicking her feet, toes scraping at the floor.

“This morning, yes.”

“Where’d he go?”

“To Philadelphia.”

“Why?”

“He had a big, important meeting.”

“Why didn’t you go?”

“I wasn’t invited.”

“Do you miss him yet?”

Burr swallows.

“Yes.”

He feels a hand on his shoulder, and then, without asking, Theo is put in his lap. It’s his first time holding the baby, and though he’s more comfortable with babies thanks to his time with Sally and little Aaron, it still feels strange, because this one is _his_. She stares at him with those eyes that mirror his, then begins to babble a string of nonsense, grabbing at his shirt with small, chubby fists.

“She likes you,” Mary Louisa says, “she only talks when she’s happy.”

Burr smiles, and lets Theo’s fist wrap around his finger.

They stay most of the afternoon, talking and playing a game Mary Louisa invented, one with complex and constantly fluctuating rules that always seem to be in her favor, before Theodosia rises.

“I promised Isaac we’d be home before dark,” she says, as Burr hands Theo back to her, his arms feeling strangely empty without the girl in them. She looks at Burr then, that same unwavering gaze that could bring men to their knees.

“Stay busy. Go to work. Come visit. We’ll come over. Don’t wallow. The time will pass, Aaron, I promise. Take it from someone who’s used to people leaving.”

Burr flinches. Yes, she would know better than most, wouldn’t she?

“Thanks, Theo,” he says, “for everything. And…I’m sorry. That I left.”

She sighs, and softens, though he can still feel the barbs in his skin.

“I wasn’t trying to shame you. Just saying I know what it’s like. And that you’ll be okay. And hey, it’s okay a few months, right?”

There it is again, that mantra. Instead of replying, Burr smiles, and kisses all three of them on the cheek in turn.

“Thank you,” he says to Theodosia, “really, thank you.”

“Anytime,” she says, “dinner Friday?”

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

 

***

 

The house is achingly quiet in their absence, and seems too large, as if it had grown without Burr noticing. But he does feel better, because one day has passed, and with it, the proof that he can survive one day, at least. He wonders what Hamilton’s doing now, if he’s still in the coach, or if it’s stopped for the night. He imagines Hamilton in some small inn, writing by candlelight; shadows flickering over his face in a way that’s always made him look almost otherworldly. Burr closes his eyes and sends a message to that imaginary Hamilton, as if sheer will could project his thoughts into the other man’s mind.

He changes into his nightclothes, and when he flops down on to the mattress the bed seems far too large. He remembers the weeks after returning when he’d slept alone, how restless he’d been, and feels much the same way now – worse, perhaps, because he’d grown accustomed not only to Hamilton’s presence and warmth, but to kissing him goodnight, to touching him in the predawn hours, a hand splayed for a moment against his back. It had been grounding, to find that solidity in the middle of the night, reminding Burr he wasn’t alone, that whatever dream or nightmare had woken him had been nothing but fiction.

Tonight, there is only empty mattress, and even as Burr lays with his limbs spread, trying to take as much space as possible, it still doesn’t feel like enough. His thoughts drift back to that morning, the last few moments before the coach had arrived. It hadn’t been enough, he’d wanted a longer goodbye with Hamilton, wanted to kiss him, touch him –

Tell him he loved him.

For everything they shared and said and did, neither one had said _I love you_. Burr had waited for Hamilton to say it, but he hadn’t, though his affections had always suggested as much. Burr had meant to say it, to tip his hand, because the words filled his throat so readily whenever he looked at Hamilton it felt nearly impossible not to say it.

But he hadn’t, had he?

The moment had slipped between his fingers, like water, all those chances gone, and now Hamilton’s in an inn somewhere and Burr hasn’t told him he loves him. He wonders if it would matter, or change anything.

Oh well. There will be time, when Hamilton returns. Assuming his feelings don’t change. Assuming he returns at all, and isn’t swept up into more political affairs. _Assuming_.

It’s only a few months.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> notes:  
> \- Hamilton's [actual epitaph](https://www.findagrave.com/cgi-bin/fg.cgi?page=gr&GRid=437) is much longer  
> \- Most attendance was intermittent at the Constitutional Convention with people coming and going, but for the sake of Plot I'm changing how it was structured.  
> \- "The institutional separation of powers [and checks and balances] aboard pirate ships predated its adoption by seventeenth- and eighteenth-century governments.  
> France, for example, did not experience such a separation until 1789. Nor did the United States. The first specter of separated powers in Spain did not appear until 1812. In contrast, pirates had divided, democratic “government” aboard their ships at least a century before this." -- Peter Leeson, ["An-arrgh-chy: The Law and Economics of Pirate Organization"](http://www.peterleeson.com/An-arrgh-chy.pdf)  
> \- tl;dr pirates had some good governmental shit figured out and Hamilton plans to liberally borrow from it, ~~and wouldn't our fucking nation be better if we had learned from gay pirates~~.  
>  \- The phrases "They cross a miniature infinity of emotional shades" and "There are tears, once --" are from Sylvia Brownrigg's incredibly beautiful book [Pages For Her](https://www.amazon.com/dp/B01N7FZPYS/ref=dp-kindle-redirect?_encoding=UTF8&btkr=1).
> 
> as always, comments give me life.


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Burr kills time, murders it in whatever ways he can. He spends more hours than he should at work, staying late to finish legal briefs or fine-tuning a courtroom argument. Theodosia visits, always with the children, and Burr sees them frequently enough that he is able to partake in the small changes as Theo grows. Dinner becomes a weekly affair, and Isaac gradually relaxes in Burr’s presence, the men slowly becoming friends."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look! Less then a month between updates! It's a _miracle_. Also fair warning I edited this after a decent quantity of pomegranate vodka. Happy Sunday!

Burr’s back at work the next day, determined to tamp down his sullenness. The workload is daunting, considering he’s the only one there to deal with it, but he makes do, and is pleasantly surprised to find that the days do not drag on as slowly as he had feared. On Friday, Theodosia keeps her word, and comes by the office with the children, a whirling dervish of noise and chaos upending the quiet that had settled over the office. Mary Louisa climbs into Hamilton’s empty chair and tips it on to its hind legs, balancing so precariously that Burr can barely stand to watch.

“Thought we’d come pick you up,” Theodosia says, shifting Theo slightly on her hip. The baby holds out her arms for Burr, and he glances at Theodosia, a silent question. She answers by passing the baby over, the weight of her warm and strangely comfortable in his arms.

“You didn’t have to -” he protests, though his arms remain tight around Theo.

“I know. But I know you, and if you’re given half a chance to go home and hide, you’re too likely to take it. Especially given your current…situation. So I thought I’d come by, with backup,” she says, eyeing them, taking note of how Burr holds the baby, “seems like it’s working.”

Burr doesn’t bother protesting, and follows them out into the waning light of the early evening, still carrying the baby.

When they arrive at the house Mary Louisa bounds up the walkway, eager to open the door for them. It flings open before she can reach it, Isaac standing there, a wide grin on his face.

“There’s my girls!” he shouts, crouching with arms flung wide, and Mary Louisa hurls herself into them hard enough that Isaac nearly loses his balance. He picks her up, swings her around with an easy deftness before placing her back on her feet where she wobbles, laughing. Burr’s a little shocked at the display of exuberance – Isaac seems a different creature than the quiet man who’d been at dinner last time – and he understands why when Isaac catches sight of him and his face changes, grows more stoic. He still greets Theodosia with a kiss, and takes the baby from Burr (who relinquishes her with some reluctance, but his arms have begun to ache after the walk back). Still, Isaac seems more restrained now, the former exuberance quelled.

“Mr. Burr,” Isaac says, and offers his hand.

“Please,” Burr takes his hand, “call me Aaron.”

“Aaron, then. Please come in. Didn’t realize you’d be by this early -”

“We swung by the office, coerced him into leaving early,” Theodosia says, slipping off her coat and hanging it by the door, “didn’t want him bailing on us.”

The evening passes with much of the same hectic energy as Burr’s first supper at Theodosias’ had, though Burr remains all too aware of Hamilton’s absence. At that first dinner, they’d shared looks, jokes, feeding off one another as they told stories in tandem. Burr’s grateful for the children, who keep him from feeling like too much of a third wheel. Isaac remains quiet for most of the evening, though lighting up when engaging with Mary Louisa or Theo. Burr finds himself sneaking glances at the other man all evening, thinking of Theodosia’s revelation. He doesn’t entirely mean to, but he looks for the curves he finds on women, tries to discern a femininity in Isaac’s voice. He notices the lack of an Adam’s apple, and notes a certain prettiness about Isaac that he hadn’t before. He looks more than he should, trying to puzzle it out, decoding the mystery of a man Theodosia had married.

 

***

 

Not long after dinner, Theo falls asleep and Theodosia hustles a protesting Mary Louisa off to bed, leaving Burr alone with Isaac in the deafening silence.

“She told you about me,” Isaac says, flat. It’s not a question.

“In my defense,” Burr says, “I believe she told you my secrets first.”

Isaac smiles a little at that, but then his lips return to a set line.

“It wasn’t her secret to tell,” he says, “and neither was yours.”

“She meant well -”

“Oh, I know. I’m not mad – at her, or you. But it changes things. Like tonight. You think you’re being sneaky, but you look at me like I’ve grown a third head.”

Burr flushes.

“I’m sorry, Isaac, I’ve just…it’s new to me. Not something I’ve ever heard of and I’m trying to figure it out.”

 “You seem decent enough, Aaron, but it’s uncomfortable. No one likes their body scrutinized. And men’s eyes have a certain weight to them.”

Isaac looks off beyond Burr, something pensive crossing his face, a memory Burr is not privy to.

“I’m sorry,” Burr says again, then adds, “for what it’s worth, I’m glad Theodosia found you.”

It’s the truth – but also, he’s pretty desperate for a subject change. It works, though, because Isaac’s face softens.

“Me too,” he says, “funny thing--”

He stops himself, and Burr looks at him, curious why the sentence faltered.

“Yes?”

“Did she tell you how we came to be married?”

“No, she only told me that she’d married, nothing else.”

“It boils down to she needed a husband to keep the title of her house and I needed a wife who didn’t mind my, ah, situation to fend off suspicious eyes. The fact she’d just fallen pregnant helped us both, really. We weren’t in love, when we married, it was simply the most practical thing for us.”

“A matter of convenience,” Burr says, then laughs. Isaac eyes him, unsure of the joke.

“You could say so, yes. A matter – and a marriage – of convenience. She got a husband’s name to slap on the property, I got a wife to help my status among my men, and a baby I could call mine.”

Burr feels an unanticipated ache at that, thinking of Theo’s eyes. Isaac continues.

“But Theodosia, well – I knew she was beautiful, obviously, and I knew she was smart, but didn’t know _how_ smart. And funny, though occasionally that sharp wit of hers ends up with you bleeding.”

Burr knows. He’s been on the receiving end of that blade a few times himself.

“Before Theo was even born – well, I was in love. And terrified she didn’t feel the same way, because when she first met – when we first agreed to this - she told me she wasn’t interested in falling in love, because most things she loved ended up dead. I believe your name was mentioned.”

Isaac pauses, tracing shapes on the tabletop with his fingertip. Burr watches the movement, but can’t quite discern the pattern.

“I was wary for other reasons as well – she knew about my situation, of course, but when I told her I also said I’d never ask anything of her. So I didn’t know if she’d see me in that way.”

“Seems like you convinced her,” Burr says.

“Ah, she’s the one who – well, who ultimately started things. Said she got bored of waiting for me to make a move.”

Burr laughs. Isaac smiles, and for the first time something relaxes in him, a larger glimpse of the man Theodosia loves. There’s a soft cough, and then Theodosia steps into the kitchen.

“To be fair,” she says, “he was taking _forever_.”

She stands behind Isaac, hand on his shoulder, then leans forward and kisses the top of his head with such tenderness that Burr can barely stand to witness it, and even as he averts his eyes he feels a gnawing ache in his stomach, all too aware of Hamilton’s absence.

He takes his leave not long after, returns to his dark and vacant house. He’s tired, but knows if he tried to sleep now his mind would be ruthless in its replaying of his discussion with Isaac, of the distinct emptiness of his own house. So instead he lights a candle and settles at Hamilton’s desk, taking comfort in the Hamilton-ness of it: the chaotic but somehow organized mess of papers, the pages filled with unfinished essays and letters, and, wadded up in the corner of the desk, an ink-stained rag Hamilton used for the inevitable spills.

Burr writes to Hamilton, detailing Theodosia’s kindness in taking him under her wing (and thanking Hamilton for instigating her first visit), updating Hamilton on a few of the unfinished cases. He’s unsure how to end the letter, however, how to precisely detail his feelings in a way that Hamilton would understand, but anyone else happening to read the letter would not.

_I miss you_ , he writes, but the sentence is too stark, too desperate. He crosses it out, ink seeping into the word until it’s illegible.

_I eagerly await your return_ , he writes, _for the office, and much else, already feels empty without you._

He leaves the letter on the desk to dry, and finally readies himself for bed. He’s slept poorly the past few nights, finding himself waking and reaching out for a body that’s no longer there. But he feels better tonight than he has in many nights and thinks that perhaps he might finally sleep.

 

***

 

Burr kills time, murders it in whatever ways he can. He spends more hours than he should at work, staying late to finish legal briefs or fine-tuning a courtroom argument. Theodosia visits, always with the children, and Burr sees them frequently enough that he is able to partake in the small changes as Theo grows. Dinner becomes a weekly affair, and Isaac gradually relaxes in Burr’s presence, the men slowly becoming friends.

And he writes. Burr had never taken as much pleasure in writing as Hamilton did, had seen it simply as something practical, a means to an end, a form of communication. But as he writes – for work, for pleasure, as his one lifeline to the man he loves – he begins to savor it, the challenge of crafting the perfect sentence, of articulating his thoughts as best he can.

When he goes to post his latest set of letters, he’s shocked and pleased to have a handful of letters in return – one bearing Hamilton’s familiar script, and one with no return address, but a script that’s become familiar on its own.

Burr opens Hamilton’s letter as soon as he leaves the post office, taking shade in the building’s awning. He reads the missive greedily, imagining Hamilton’s warm tone behind the words.

> _My Dearest Aaron,_
> 
> _The Convention is an exercise in patience. The floor is full of men with idiotic ideas about how to run our country. My first turn to talk isn’t for a few days, and I grow increasingly restless listening to their blather. There are a few good ideas, specks of gold amongst the dense rock, but these are few and far between. Philadelphia herself is oddly cold. They tell me it’s no colder than New York – if anything, perhaps warmer, as the winds don’t blow in off the river – but I disagree. Perhaps it is simply your absence that makes it feel colder here--_

The letter goes on for pages, mostly detailing the multitude of ways in which many of Hamilton’s fellow convention-goers are fools. Burr, who has listened to many such rants (on different topics, but in a similar enough vein), smiles at the way Hamilton captures the same feel on paper, the frustration, the desire to simply take over and do it _better_. Though he tries to read slowly, to savor the words, he reaches the end far too soon.

> _Your absence is felt most acutely, the sort of thing that finds its way into my marrow and refuses to leave. I find myself daydreaming of New York. I eagerly await our reacquaintance, as my departure was much too rushed and we were unable to bid one another any decent kind of farewell._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Alex_
> 
> _p.s. Not that a decent farewell would have made the fact of your absence any better, but it might have given me something to ruminate on, in these cold, boring nights._

Burr has to resist the urge to clutch the letter to his chest, as if the ink could seep into his heart. He rereads it immediately, tries to slow himself down. It’s not that he’s doubted Hamilton’s feelings, but to have them reaffirmed on paper, a reminder Burr can refer back to, is gratifying. He folds the letter carefully, almost reverently, and places it back in its envelope. Now he does place it close to his chest – tucked inside his coat – and hurries home in the waning light, the slight crinkle of paper against his chest oddly comforting.

A soon as he’s home he removes the letters carefully, and opens the second envelope with his name written on it in another familiar scrawl.

> _Dear Aaron,_
> 
> _Words can hardly express my delight in receiving your letter, and my delight only increased at hearing of yours and Mr. Hamilton's reconciliation. I am gratified that my instincts were correct, although selfishly, I must admit that I am a bit despondent that this likely means you will no longer so much as entertain the notion of joining me and Sebastian aboard the Wolverine. Still, I can only be so selfish, and mostly I am happy for you, my dear Aaron, and hope that you continue your work with Mr. Hamilton for many years to come._
> 
> _Funnily enough - though you must already know this - your letter was not the only one I received from a New Yorker, as your Mr. Hamilton also wrote to me, full of questions about the code used aboard our ship. Seemed to like some of the ideas, and hopes to see them implemented in your still-infantile states. His letter was very polite, if a titch long, and I am grateful that there seems to be no ill will between him and myself, something I did wonder about when we last departed._
> 
> _Things are going well here, business as usual, for the most part. I did get a new scar - bit of a skirmish with an unwieldy client and no backup. Unfortunately it's on my handsome face, though Sebastian insists I’m lovely as ever. I have reason to believe the man is a liar, but what can you do? It's healed well enough, and will only contribute to my badass image. Perhaps you’ll see it one day, should our paths cross again._
> 
> _Finally, Aaron, do not let your loneliness consume you. I know the months are long, but you're a brave and determined man, and, more importantly, a patient one. The work with Hamilton is still new, and I understand the desire to be constantly, well, working, but take it from a man whose “business relationship” has lasted for years – you’ll get through it. They come back, and they drive you crazy enough that you almost wish they’d go away again. Whoever said absence makes the heart grow fonder wasn't lying._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _John_

Burr takes comfort in Higgins’s letter, in the brief glimpse of shared experience. Higgins hadn’t told Burr much of his history with Trumbull, and the knowledge that someone else had felt the same ache gives Burr some comfort.

He writes a reply almost immediately, hoping perhaps that they will remain in port long enough for a quicker exchange of letters. He thanks Higgins, mentioning his time spent with Theodosia and her family, and posts the letter the same day.

 

***

 

Burr visits the docks one particularly quiet day. The breeze coming in off the Hudson makes the summer air more bearable as he walks, inhaling the salty air. He looks out at the ships and feels a strange mix of emotions in his throat. He’d never thought he’d so much as want to _see_ a ship again, after what happened, but the sight of them causes a tightness in his chest that’s part anxiety and part longing. The docks are largely deserted; most of the ships out, but a few crewmen are out prepping their ships for their various voyages. Burr hadn’t come here simply to gawk (though he’s doing more of that than intended), so he wanders until he finds an older sailor, salt-stained and gruff.

“Excuse me,” he says, and the man grunts in response.

“I was looking for--” Burr pauses, gulps a little - he’s about to make a stupid request - then soldiers on, “a piece of rope, something to practice knots with.”

The sailor looks Burr up and down, taking in his fussier clothes (nothing compared to Hamilton, but they still scream _I don’t belong here_ ).

“Don’t have rope where you live?”

“They do, but I want -- I want a ship’s rope. The kind you use in the riggings.”

“Rope’s rope. Not much difference. Why’d you really come here?”

Well, he certainly hadn’t come for an interrogation.

“I want a ship’s rope. I started learning knots when I was aboard the _Pickering_.”

The man’s eyes widen. They’re a startling shade of blue.

“Ah shit, you’re Aaron Burr, aren’t you? One of the ones that survived?”

“I am, yes.”

“Should have said so. Sure, I’ll get you a rope.”

He disappears on to what Burr assumes is his ship, returns a moment later with a length of rope. Burr insists on giving him a few shillings for his trouble, and they part ways. Burr waits until there’s some distance between them before running his hand over the roughly woven surface of the rope. The sensation of it brings back memories of being aboard the _Pickering_ , knotting and unknotting his piece of rope in the darkness, while Hamilton slept and thrashed above him.

When he gets home he takes it fully in his hands. It’s similar to the pieces he fiddled with aboard both the _Pickering_ and the _Wolverine_ , perhaps a bit longer. He lifts it to his nose, inhales the faint scent of seawater and feels a pang in his chest again, that queer longing for something he never imagined he would long for.

He’d pleased to discover he’s lost none of his deftness, his fingers working easily to tie and retie the knots he’d learned on the two ships. It’s soothing, and as he works, Burr recalls the words of the ship’s boy, now long gone:   _the steps, when performed right, produce the same result every time_.

If only everything in life were so easy.

 

***

 

Burr receives several letters at once, all from Hamilton, likely posted days, if not hours, apart. The first two are in the vein of his other letters, transcriptions of the goings-on at the convention, mixed in with allusions to missing Burr. The last envelope is oddly light, and when Burr opens it, there’s just a single sheet of paper, incredibly slight compared to Hamilton’s usual tomes.

> _My Dearest Aaron,_
> 
> _I’m afraid it may be more than a “few months,” as I was so fond of saying to you. Due to the near-stagnation of progress here, we just received word that the Convention will be extended into late August, or perhaps September. I’m so sorry. I miss you._
> 
> _Yours,_
> 
> _Alex_

Burr’s stomach drops as he puts the letter down. It’s late June now, the whole city hot and miserable, and he’d borne the hope - supplemented by Hamilton's earlier letters - that he would be back sometime in July. But now it’s another month, if not longer.

“FUCK!” he shouts into the empty home. The letter and revelation of Hamilton’s longer stay had released some heretofore unknown emotion in him. He’d been fine in Hamilton’s absence, had structured himself to _be_ fine until July. He doesn't have the resolve for another month, or he certainly _feels_ like he doesn’t, in this moment.

But he must. Because there’s no other option, but to wait. Only a few months. Well, a few more months, now.

 

***

 

Except he can’t.

Burr finds himself restless and unpleasant, a state which is confirmed by Theodosia.

“You’re being shitty company right now,” she says, “what’s wrong?”

“Alex’s stay has been extended. He won’t return ‘til August now, maybe September.”

Theodosia makes a little _ah_ sound in her throat.

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“What?”

“You’re miserable here, clearly, which, quite frankly, is making _me_ miserable. Do you think your office will thrive while led by a curmudgeon? Do you think your friends will want to hang out with you?”

“There’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Funny, I didn’t realize all the coaches in New York mysteriously disappeared.”

“Theo, I can’t just--”

“Can’t what, Aaron? Pay your friend a visit? Consult with him on some vital case?”

“It’s not that easy--”

“You’re the only one making it hard. Take a week. Don’t you think he misses you, too?”

“What if I show up, and he’s changed?”

“Well first, I highly doubt that. Second, isn’t it worth the chance?”

She places her hand over his, familiar, and continues.

“Aaron, when you disappeared - if I’d had any way of knowing you were alive, of knowing where you were, you could be damn sure I would have shown up for you.”

“Not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

“You can’t play the abandoned lover card when you’re the married one.”

“I absolutely can and will, Aaron. And it’s true. So don’t act like Philadelphia's an ocean away, when you could be with the man you love in a few days.”

“I’ll see,” Burr says. Theodosia smiles sweetly, like some kind of damned saint, and Burr decides to momentarily regret reconnecting with her.

“Stop waiting, Aaron.”

 

***

 

This is a stupid idea.

Burr’s suitcase is set near the doorway as he paces the kitchen, wondering if it’s too late to back out. He feels a vague sense of déjà vu, waiting in the kitchen for a knock at the door. But he’s alone, this time. Though he’s expecting it, he still startles when the knock comes, answering the door quickly. His suitcase is loaded on to the coach and Burr climbs inside, the decision made, and slowly, they eat away at the miles that stretch between New York and Philadelphia.

It’s a fairly terrible trip. The early July heat is stifling inside the coach, even with every window open, and the driver keeps the horses are a walk for much of the trip, unwilling to push them in the heat. This makes for slow going and little breeze, and for the hundredth time this trip, Burr mops his brow and regrets his decisions.

Burr tries to daydream about his reunion with Hamilton, but the sweltering heat makes him dizzy and his thoughts keep dancing away from him. It cools off a little at night, though even when Burr tries to sleep his skin feels flushed and hot.

He feels a little better when he wakes, though he has a splitting headache reminiscent of a hangover. It’s slightly cooler in the early morning, but the brilliant clarity of the sun gives Burr no doubt the day will be another scorcher. His headache stays with him through the ride, as does the flushed skin, and Burr thinks of Monmouth, how he’d felt much the same way there, shortly before falling ill. _Sun-sickness_ , the doctor had said, mostly dismissive. Burr couldn’t blame him, what was a little dizziness and fainting compared to men holding in their own entrails, begging the doctors to perform miracles? Still, it had kept him miserable enough, and out of commission for most of the battle.

By the time they reach his destination – Burr is the last one to be dropped off – his skin has gone dry and papery, no longer damp with sweat, and distantly he’s aware he’s fully sick now, suffering the effects of the heat. The driver helps him out of the coach with a concerned look on his face, but Burr dismisses him, tipping him with whatever’s in his pockets. Burr’s head throbs with every heartbeat as he makes his way to the doorstep, not even sure if Hamilton’s there, and this is _definitely_ a stupid idea.

He knocks. The door cracks open, and there’s Hamilton, looking like an apparition in Burr’s blurring vision.

“Aaron?”

Burr promptly faints.

 

***

 

He comes to half-naked in a strange bed, and while it’s not the first time in his life that this has happened, he’s more confused than ever. His skin is damp, though he isn’t sure if it’s sweat or water. His head’s still throbbing, and his stomach feels uneasy, like it might decide to betray him at any moment. He’s utterly confused as to where he is.

“Aaron?”

The voice sounds far away and Burr looks for its source, though his eyes seem to have a mind of their own. He knows the voice, though. It’s the voice from the cave, saying _don’t leave me here alone_ , from his house, saying _it’s only a few months_ and _I’ll write_ and   _I’ll miss you_.

“This isn’t exactly how I planned to make my entrance,” he says, voice cracking slightly. He closes his eyes again – the darkness is an easier place to be – and feels a slight shift in the mattress as Hamilton sits at the side of the bed.

“You scared the shit out of me for about ten different reasons,” Hamilton says, resting his hand on Burr’s thigh.

“Sorry,” Burr mumbles.

“Yeah,” Hamilton sighs, “and you’re lucky Robert wasn’t here. Not sure how I’d explain you showing up and collapsing at my doorstep.”

Burr wants to ask who Robert is, thinks wildly for a moment that it’s Hamilton’s friend from the ship, then he remembers: Robert – Robert Yates, to be exact – was one of the other New York delegates. There was a third, but Burr can’t recall the man’s name. Something common.

His eyes are still closed, too heavy to stay open, and he’s considering drifting back off when Hamilton nudges him, a cup thrust to his lips.

“You need to drink,” Hamilton says, “rehydrate and cool down. There’s a breeze now, and you’re better than you were, but it’s going to take a minute. What the fuck were you thinking?”

Burr sips the water. It cool, edging towards lukewarm, but it feels incredible in his parched throat. He feels a damp rag wipe over his forehead, over his chest, and shivers a little at the unexpected sensation.

“Sorry,” Hamilton says, not sounding sorry at all, “easier to cool you down this way.”

“S’okay.”

The rag is pulled away, and Burr feels a finger stroke across his cheek.

“You’re a damn fool, Aaron Burr.”

“I know,” Burr says.

 

***

 

When Burr comes to a second time, his headache has receded to a dull throb and his brain actually feels like _his_ again, and not some cottony mess. He brings his hand up to his face, touches his fingers against his forehead and cheeks, where the skin is warm, but no longer hot. Though the sunstroke has eased, Burr still feels weak. He sees a glass of water on the nightstand, drinks it eagerly. The light inside the room has dimmed, suggesting it’s early evening.

“Alex?” Burr calls out, but his voice is hoarse, as if he’d been screaming. He drinks more water, and tries again, “Alex?”

Silence. Burr strains to listen, and there’s nothing, the house possessing the silence that comes with being empty. Tentatively, he sits up, one hand braced against the wall. He stares down at the floor, and sees a piece of paper. Still moving cautiously, he picks it up, realizes it’s a note that he’d knocked off the nightstand while trying to get water.

_Aaron,_

_Ran out. Be back soon. Don’t go anywhere._

_-Alex_

Relief floods through him, though he remains sitting. He stands, finally, refills his glass from the carafe on the dresser. The room – Hamiltons’, he assumes – is stark, suggesting not much time is spent in it. Burr spots a few items of clothing strewn about. There’s sheaves of notes as well, written in an illegible shorthand detailing, as far as Burr can tell, the events from the convention.

The slam of the door makes him jump, and then he hears Hamilton’s voice calling out.

“Aaron? You awake?”

“In here.”

Hamilton appears in the doorway, smiling as he takes Burr in.

“Good to see you standing. You scared the shit out of me earlier.”

“You already said that.”

“It begs to be reiterated.”

Hamilton steps fully into the room, closes the door behind him. He takes Burr’s face in his hand, forehead tilted against his, and simply regards him for a moment.

“I fucking missed you, Aaron.”

“I missed you, too.”

The kiss is gentle, not the fiery, passionate thing Burr had daydreamed about – Burr’s not up to it – but Hamilton’s lips beneath his feel like home nonetheless, and something inside Burr relaxes for the first time since he watched Hamilton climb into the coach. Hamilton’s arms are locked fully behind Burr’s neck, and Burr’s arms around his waist, bodies fitted against one another. They keep kissing, light brushes of the lips, neither one willing or able to stop. Burr thinks he could have stayed like that for days, but Hamilton finally draws back, granting space between them.

“I’ve told Robert you needed to consult with me on a case. Big, career-making stuff. We’ll stay here tonight, and tomorrow – tomorrow’s a day off, for us, and maybe you and I could find somewhere…”

“Sounds perfect.”

Though he’d slept most of the afternoon, Burr’s still exhausted soon into the evening. He meets Hamilton’s roommate, Robert, and is soon ignored as Hamilton and Robert fall into an argument over something that Hamilton said yesterday. Burr creeps off to Hamilton’s room and changes into his nightclothes, then stretches out in the bed, savoring the scent of Hamilton on the sheets.

He must have dozed off, because he’s awakened by Hamilton nudging him.

“Scoot over, you hog.”

Burr grumbles, but moves over anyway, and Hamilton slides into the bed. Burr rolls over to face him, and Hamilton’s hand finds his, fingers tangling together.

“When I got the letter,” Burr says, “I couldn’t--”

Hamilton places a finger over his lips, casts an over-exaggerated glance at the door.

“No locks,” he whispers, “and thin walls. We’ll discuss the case tomorrow.”

Hamilton leads forward and kisses Burr, soft and quiet, runs a finger along his cheek. Burr smiles at the affections.

“I don’t get it,” he says, “when on earth did you become the sensible one?”

Hamilton laughs.

“Go to sleep, Aaron.”

“Goodnight, Alex.”

“Goodnight.”

Burr rolls back over, and Hamilton slots in behind him, taking his hand again. They don’t sleep, not for a while, instead stay there in silence, fingers playing over one another, Hamilton occasionally pressing soft kisses to Burr’s neck or shoulder. Like their first kiss upon being reunited, it’s not the fiery, passionate thing that Burr had first envisioned, but now, lying like this, he can’t imagine a more perfect night.

 

***

 

Burr feels almost like himself again when he wakes the next morning, having had plenty of water and rest away from the sweltering heat of the coach. Hamilton’s presence certainly didn’t hurt either, a balm to some deep aching part of him he hadn’t even been entirely aware of. He reaches out to brush a strand of hair from Hamilton’s cheek, and the other man’s eyes flutter open, a soft, sleepy smile on his face.

“That’s the best I’ve slept in weeks,” Hamilton says, the words muffling into a yawn.

“Me too,” Burr agrees, and kisses him softly.

They get dressed, wandering out into the living room.

“Where’s Robert?” Burr asks. Hamilton scoffs.

“He went out drinking last night. Probably hasn’t come home yet. Man’s useless. Come on, I’m hungry.”

They eat breakfast before heading out, and Hamilton shows Burr around the town he’s called home for the past two months. It’s a decent enough place, and though Burr much prefers New York, he’s happy just to be here with Hamilton.

They wander aimlessly for the better part of the day, talking in low murmurs, sharing everything they couldn’t in their letters. Burr learns of Hamilton’s six hour speech, and feels a twinge of pity for the other convention goers. It feels like Hamilton recites half the speech for Burr, because soon enough it’s early afternoon.

“I did some inquiring,” Hamilton says, changing the topic, piquing Burr’s attention, “and found a place for us to stay tonight. Told Robert we’d be up all night working the case and I didn’t want to disturb him. And I do hope to be up all night - that is, if you’re feeling better?”

Burr can't touch him, not out on the street, but he catches his eye, conveys all he can with a glance.

“I feel in the peak of health.”

Hamilton grins, devilish, and quickens his step.

“Might as well head there now, then.”

Burr doesn’t argue.

The place is in a sketchier part of town, and the building itself a far cry from grandiose. Hamilton goes in alone, pays for the room, and returns with a key. Burr follows him eagerly to the room, the months of withdrawal making themselves known. Hamilton shuts the door behind them too hard, almost a slam, and locks it, then turns to Burr.

“Darling, I missed the fuck out of you,” he says, then kisses Burr, mouths open and eager, hips grinding. It’s fire, now, hands barely able to undo buttons quick enough, tripping out of their pants, laughing. The bed’s not the cleanest thing Burr’s ever seen, but after spending the better part of a year in a cave, he’s still grateful for any soft surface he can get.

The tumble on to the mattress, and Burr kisses down Hamilton’s neck, sucks bruises into the places he knows his clothes will cover. Hamilton moans wantonly under the ministrations, the noise increasing when Burr takes Hamilton’s cock into his hand, strokes it gently. By the time he kisses his way down Hamilton’s cock is leaking precum, and Burr wastes no time in taking it into his mouth, sinking deep in a single swallow, causing Hamilton to gasp and curse. Using his hand and mouth, Burr works him, tongue flicking over the head of Hamilton’s cock, and it takes less than a minute before Hamilton’s hand is scrabbling at his shoulder, the cursing growing louder, and then Hamilton spills over Burr’s tongue. Burr withdraws his mouth, licks a final glistening bead of come from Hamilton’s cock, then moves back up to kiss him.

“Yes,” Hamilton says, hums a pleased note as Burr continues to lay feathery kisses at his jawline, “I missed you a lot.”

“That feeling is very mutual,” Burr murmurs into the skin of Hamilton’s neck, then lets himself be rolled over as Hamilton assumes control. Burr feels hypersensitive to every touch, skin lit like fire as Hamilton blazes a path down his body. Hamilton still takes the time to kiss Burr’s inner thigh, the slightest graze of teeth. Hamilton finally takes Burr in hand, though still strokes him lazily, the tip of his tongue just grazing the head of Burr’s cock. He continues, light licks at the tip that make Burr squirm and curse, until finally – _finally_ – Hamilton’s lips stretch over him, warmth and wetness. Hamilton meets Burr’s gaze as his head bobs, and hums with satisfaction, the noise reverberating through him. Burr buries a hand in his hair, desperate for something to hold on to, fingers tangling in the strands.

He doesn’t last long, either, not with Hamilton looking up at him with that hungry gaze, his tongue doing things Burr has no name for. The hand in Hamilton’s hair curls into a fist as he cries out, a desperate sound that might have intended itself to be Hamilton’s name. Hamilton swallows him dry, then comes up to lay in the crook of Burr’s arm, and silence swells around them.

“Perfect,” Hamilton says, voice softened, and though there’s no indication as to what he’s referring to, Burr agrees.

“Yes,’ he says, “perfect.”

 

***

 

“I’d intended a more romantic entrance, you know,” Burr says, when some the haze of their sex has worn off. Still in his arms, Hamilton laughs.

“I’d say you showing up on my doorstep is romantic regardless of your state. Though I could have done without the fainting. Bit dramatic, really.”

Burr tugs at his hair, and Hamilton grins.

“Believe me; I had a different plan in mind before the heat got to me.”

“Oh?”

“Yes, I was going to show up with roses, and poems, and all sorts of romantic things-”

“Good thing the heat got to you, then.”

“Really, though. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss you, and then I got the letter that you wouldn’t be back for months and--”

Burr swallows, and hesitates. But only for a moment. Because here, with Hamilton in his arms, laughing and teasing, he’s _sure_.

“And I couldn’t have you go another month without you knowing that I love you.”

_There_. He tips his hand, the one he’s held to his chest for almost a year now, ever since the realization came to him somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic ocean.

Hamilton turns so he’s looking directly at him, and the smile blooms across his face like a sunrise, and Burr thinks again that Hamilton is beautiful. That he’s devastating.

“Aaron,” Hamilton says his name like a prayer, “I love you, too.”

Burr had meant to say more, but then Hamilton’s kissing him, so of course he kisses back, distracted and warm. Hamilton pulls back, that same devastating smile on his face.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting to hear you say that,” Hamilton says.

“Then what stopped you from saying it?”

“Same thing that stopped me from jumping your bones every time you flirted with me when you got back. I’m going at your pace, Aaron. I don’t want you to have any doubts, and I never want to feel like I’ve pressured you into anything.”

Burr opens his mouth to disagree, to argue. Hamilton keeps talking.

“Not that I’ve doubted your feelings for me, but I’ve had to let you come to the conclusions yourself. I don’t ever want to be accused of leading you into them.”

Burr tightens his grip on Hamilton’s hand. Thinks, as he so often has, of knots. Bound together.

“Would have saved me a lot of worry if you’d just said it. Or kissed me first, for that matter.”

“But I know now.”

“Know what?”

“That you’re sure.”

Burr laughs. He lifts Hamilton’s hand to his lips, lays a kiss on the knuckle there.

“Don’t think I’ve ever been more sure of anything in my life.”

“Good,” Hamilton says, and sighs, blissful, “I love you, Aaron.”

“I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they're in ~*looooove*~
> 
> notes:  
> \- in case anyone was wondering what John Higgins looks like, @[the-gay-captiam](https://the-gay-captiam.tumblr.com/) drew an INCREDIBLE picture of him which can be viewed [here](http://thinksideways.tumblr.com/post/164371404456/thinksideways-higgins-anon-hhhhh-wasnt-sure). The picture also inspired Higgins's mention of a new scar.  
> \- ngl I'm also writing an AU in my head about Theodosia and Isaac's love story because I'm out of control. help.  
> \- back to actual facts: the Constitutional Convention ran from May 25th through September 17th, though I'm continuing to make up facts as to how any of it transpired.  
> \- Hamilton's roommate was [Robert Yates](http://teachingamericanhistory.org/static/convention/delegates/yates.html), another New York delegate. Also, Robert Yates is apparently a serial killer in the 1970s-1990s. Thanks, Google.  
> \- The third New York delegate was named John and I refuse to have any more Johns in this story.  
> \- If you have heat stroke once (as Burr did at the Battle of Monmouth), you're more likely to have it again. Enclosed coaches with no ventilation don't help. 
> 
> as always always always I'm so grateful y'all are reading and generally being amazing


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The same time Burr had worked so hard to kill seems to dissipate in an instant during his all too brief stay in Philadelphia. They'd returned back to Hamilton's rented home for the final night, as Hamilton had to return to the convention the next morning and continue on his mission to shape the nation. Though he still feels a dull ache as he wakes, Burr feels none of that gnawing anxiety that had plagued him the morning Hamilton had first set off for the Convention. Hamilton has told him he loves him at least a hundred times since Burr's confession, and this knowledge - suspected, and now confirmed - calms him in a way he has not anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for taking so long to update but I am not dead and this fic is not abandoned.
> 
> To those still reading this: thank you.

The same time Burr had worked so hard to kill seems to dissipate in an instant during his all too brief stay in Philadelphia. They'd returned back to Hamilton's rented home for the final night, as Hamilton had to return to the convention the next morning and continue on his mission to shape the nation. Though he still feels a dull ache as he wakes, Burr feels none of that gnawing anxiety that had plagued him the morning Hamilton had first set off for the Convention. Hamilton has told him he loves him at least a hundred times since Burr's confession, and this knowledge - suspected, and now confirmed - calms him in a way he has not anticipated.

Robert leaves before either of them do, granting them a brief moment of privacy. Hamilton is quick to make use of it, grabbing Burr and kissing him with a passion that borders on savagery.

"Don't go," Hamilton says, a plea they both know he can't honor.

"I don't want to," Burr replies.

"I'll miss you."

"Only a month and a half now. I'll be waiting for you at home."

"Home," Hamilton murmurs, kissing Burr again, lips moving to his neck, which stirs things in Burr that do not need to be stirred right before embarking on another hideously long carriage ride, "I can't wait."

"Me either."

Waiting's the only thing either of them really can do, of course, a fact Burr is reminded of as he hears the sound of the coach pulling up outside. The one thing he is grateful for is that the dreadful heat and humidity have abated some, offering much more tolerable temperatures for his travels.

"You've got everything?" Hamilton asks, and Burr touches his single bag.

"Yeah, I'm good."

"Okay, one second --" Hamilton dashes off to his desk, returns clutching a fistful of envelopes, puts them in Burr's bag.

"What --"

"I wrote you letters. The kind you can't send in the mail. And probably shouldn't keep around anywhere too accessible..."

Oh. _Those_ kinds of letters. Burr feels a low swell of heat in his belly at the idea.

"When did you write these?" he asks. There's easily a dozen envelopes in Hamilton's hand.

"While you were asleep. What can I say? You're my muse, Aaron."

The knock on the door preempts Burr's response. He takes Hamilton's hand, a brief caress.

"Thank you," he says, "I look forward to reading them."

And that's it - Hamilton opens the door, and helps Burr with his luggage, and then Burr's the one walking into the coach, which soon rolls away onto the dirt road. He cranes his head back, catches one last glimpse of Hamilton, and then the coach turns, Hamilton disappearing from view. Burr settles back into his seat, already uncomfortable. It's still hot in the coach, but nowhere near what it was on his first journey. He tips his head back, closes his eyes, thinking of the all-too-brief weekend with Hamilton.

_I love you_. That, he carries with him. He replays the memory over and over, a soft smile on his face.

The rest of the journey passes without much note, and Burr manages to get through the whole affair without fainting. Soon enough he's back at his house. It still feels too empty, but Burr is happier to fill it, less mopey.

 

***

 

The weeks still drag on, but Burr finds it easier, now, more secure in his knowledge of Hamilton's feelings. The letters help as well, for in them Hamilton had spared no detail in his feelings for Burr. Burr tries to make them last, opening one a day, but they still run out too soon.

He catches up at work, stays weekends to do so, and whatever time he has left is quickly occupied by Theodosia and her family. And finally, Hamilton is set to return, a date fully inscribed in Burr’s mind. He takes the day off work, which is entirely unnecessary, spends the day cleaning, which is also unnecessary (without Hamilton’s things strewn about the house is back to its former glory, which Burr would trade in a heartbeat for Hamilton’s mess and presence). The hours slog on, and evening settles in, the summer air carrying a hint of autumn with it, and Burr realizes quite suddenly that more than a year’s passed since their visit to Sally, since the kiss in the pond and the subsequent partnership.

Although Burr’s expecting it, he still flies out of his seat when the door opens, too flighty, on edge.

“Aaron?” Hamilton calls out, and Burr thrills at the familiarity of his tone. He can’t help himself, he runs into the room, grabs Hamilton before the door is fully closed. Burr kisses him, deep and a little frantic, hands roving over him, ensuring himself that yes, Hamilton is here, yes, he’s real. Hamilton drops his bag to the floor and returns the kiss, his eagerness matching Burrs’, hands slipping under Burr’s shirt, fingers running up his spine.

 “I couldn’t stop thinking about you,” Hamilton murmurs, lips on Burr’s throat. Burr’s head is tilted back, eyes closed. He murmurs a response, and Hamilton continues.

“Thought about kissing you,” Hamilton does just that, lips covering Burrs’.

“Touching you,” his hand, then, wandering and cupping Burr, palm rolling over Burr’s aching groin, and it feels as if he’s gone a lifetime without Hamilton's touch. He moans, the noise of it cut off as Hamilton kisses him again.

Hamilton guides him to the bedroom, and Burr lets himself be guided, lets himself be pushed onto the bed. Hamilton kisses him hungrily, and _this_ , this is the fire, the passion Burr had daydreamed about on his impromptu trip, except now the trip is over, now Hamilton is home, in his arms.

It’s quick, both of them too eager, too desperate to properly savor it. Afterward, though, Hamilton curls against him, almost dozing, and Burr feels the tension in his chest uncoiling, relaxing as he breathes in time with Hamilton.

 

***

 

They fall back into their routine, almost as if Hamilton had never left, until one night Burr’s awakened from a dream of distant islands by a hand on his shoulder and Hamilton’s voice muttering his name.

“Aaron? Are you awake?”

Burr rolls over, blinks sleepily at Hamilton. He has no idea what time it is, only that it’s dark, save for the candle in Hamilton’s hand, its shadows flickering over Hamilton's face in a ghastly way. Burr had gone to bed alone, Hamilton wanting to stay up writing. His first thought is something’s wrong, something’s _happened_ , and he sits up, searching Hamilton's shadow-lit face, but the expression is open and eager, no distress obvious.

“I’m awake now,” he says, “what’s wrong?”

“Can we talk?”

That phrase sends a spike of dread into Burr’s gut, and the dismay must be obvious, because Hamilton moves, hand fluttering against Burr’s shoulder, stammering.

“No, Aaron, nothing bad, it’s just - I had a great idea, I want to tell you about it--”

Burr groans and flops back into the bed.

“It’s the middle of the night, Alex.”

“No, it’s - ” Hamilton glances out the window, where the half-full moon sits high, “ah, shit, Aaron, I didn’t know it was so late, I got excited, I’m sorry.”

Only about a minute has passed and Burr feels like he’s gone through six different emotions. It’s exhausting.

“Come to bed, Alexander. The idea will be there in the morning. I assume you’ve already written things down.”

Hamilton sets the candle on the nightstand and undresses, blowing out the flame before sliding into bed, facing Burr in the darkness.

“It’s a good idea,” he says, and Burr lifts a hand to stroke his cheek - his own good idea. Burr draws him closer.

“A series of essays…” Hamilton mumbles against Burr, then, “I want your help. Need your help.”

“Tell me tomorrow,” Burr says, his voice quiet, hushing Hamilton to sleep, “I’ll help tomorrow.”

 

***

 

Burr wakes to an empty bed and wonders if last night had been part of some strange, surreal dream. He stretches, something in his shoulder popping, and has no sooner gotten out of bed when Hamilton bursts back into the room, a sheaf of papers in hand.

“You’re awake! So, what I want to do--”

“Alex…” Burr says, warning, “too much. Give me a minute.”

Hamilton looks abashed and Burr can’t take it, so he kisses him quickly.

“You know I want to hear it. I just need more than thirty seconds to wake up. We can’t all have your energy.”

“Sorry,” Hamilton says, and as Burr moves to the kitchen Hamilton steps ahead of him, busies himself getting Burr a cup of coffee.

Burr takes a few minutes to drink the coffee and switch his mind to whatever Hamilton has planned for them ( _essays_ , he recalls from the brief conversation last night, _something about essays_ ). To his credit, Hamilton has stayed silent, moving about the kitchen, tidying things that don’t need to be tidied in his desperation to be doing something.

“Okay,” Burr says, “let’s hear it.”

Hamilton turns and sits across from him. He takes Burr’s hand, squeezes it.

“So, you’re a better lawyer than me…”

Burr raises an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected the conversation to begin with flattery.

“Okay…”

“Incredible in court, succinct, persuasive...a pleasure to watch. In and out of the courtroom.”

“Not that the flattery isn’t appreciated, but I suspect the entirety of your idea isn’t just laying praise on me.”

“I have a new client.”

“Who?”

“The new U.S. constitution.”

“What?”

“The constitution is good, but a lot of people are still against it. Robert wouldn’t even sign. I think a series of essays - anonymously published - defending the document to the public would do wonders for it, would help people understand it.”

“The constitution’s a mess.”

“So it needs amendments. We have to start somewhere.”

“And if it fails?”

Burr still has his doubts about the constitution, some of those doubts fueled by the horror stories told by Hamilton himself as he described what had gone into its creation. He doesn’t want his name attached to any disasters, and if these essays failed - sure, they’re anonymous, but Hamilton’s writing style is recognizable a mile away, and Burr’s certain most people who would recognize Hamilton’s writing would suspect Burr’s involvement as well, given their close working relationship.

“It won’t.”

“You can’t know that.”

“Our nation needs this. I’ve seen how you write. How you lay out arguments. You could change the course of the nation. _We_ could change it. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted?”

Burr had always thought so. But now that the opportunity is here, presented to him, he falters.

“What if we’re backing the wrong horse?”

Hamilton looks hurt.

“Do you think it’s the wrong horse, Aaron?”

“No, I just --”

“What are you so scared of? Are you just going to stand at the sidelines while the new nation comes about? Why are you being such a coward?”

Burr rises from the chair.

“I’m not sitting here and letting you goad me. I’m taking a walk.”

He storms out, feeling anger throbbing in his chest. He isn’t sure of the exact nature of his anger - if it’s at Hamilton, for goading him, or at himself, for hesitating, for being paralyzed by doubt. For _letting_ himself be goaded. But who’s to say Hamilton’s fucking right? He’s smart, sure - probably a genius - but half his ideas for the constitution came from the pirate code, and Hamilton’s made plenty of mistakes before, a whole fucking pile of them. Burr kicks at a rock in his path, watches it skitter across the road.

“He’s not so fucking great,” he mutters. He kicks at the rock again, but misses.

 

***

 

He ends up at Theodosia’s house, no doubt interrupting a pleasant breakfast with his mood, but unable to turn to anyone else. He knocks on the door, and Mary Louisa answers.

“Hi Mr. Burr!”

“Hi Mary Louisa. Is your mom home?”

“She and Isaac are still in bed. She said not to bother her unless Theo wakes up. I’m making breakfast. Want some?”

“No, just tell her --”

“Aaron?”

Theodosia wanders into the living room, still in her nightclothes, hair in disarray. Burr recognizes that particular dishevelment (had been the cause of it himself, once upon a time), and feels even more embarrassed for interrupting her morning.

“Bit early for a visit, but come in. Everything okay?”

Burr walks into the living room, averting his eyes from Theodosia. He doesn’t answer, looks at Mary Louisa instead. Theodosia takes the hint.

“Mary Louisa, would you make Aaron some bread and butter? I bet he’d like breakfast.”

The girl obliges, scampering into the kitchen. Burr steps closer, speaks in a low voice.

“Alex and I fought this morning. He gets these ideas, and if I don’t go along right away I’m some sort of _coward_ , and I just...I don’t know. I don’t operate that way. It takes so much more work for me to be sure of things. I don’t have his blind faith.”

Theodosia laughs softly.

“You do overthink, you know. But you’re not wrong. Alex charges headlong into things without pausing to consider other options. It’s part of the reason he’s good for you, and vice versa. You’re the least uptight I’ve ever seen you, this past year.”

It’s true - Hamilton had forced Burr’s hand in all number of things, into the first move, into what became _them_. The ultimate headlong charge. And Hamilton had, for the most part, found a measure of reserve. Burr had even noted it at work, a bit more self-awareness in the courtroom, more succinct arguments.

“Did you express your worries to him? Or did you storm out impulsively?”

“I expressed my concerns.”

Theodosia’s gaze is pressing and forces an amendment from him.

“Well. I expressed _some_ concerns. He wasn’t very open to hearing them.”

“So naturally you reacted rashly and stormed out. See? Alex is having an effect on you. Dramatic exits always seemed more his thing.”

“As if Alex would walk away from an argument.”

Theodosia laughs.

“Fair enough. Still, you see my point.”

Burr does, as much as he’s loath to admit.

“Now, come to the kitchen. Let’s see what Mary Louisa’s done to the place.”

 

***

 

Burr feels calmer, walking home. He expects Hamilton to be gone when he arrives, headed to the office to fit in extra work. He’s more than a bit shocked when he walks into the living room to see Hamilton there on the couch, nothing in hand, just sitting. Waiting. The expression on his face breaks Burr’s heart for a moment, the eyes red-rimmed, and Burr realizes Hamilton has been crying.

“I’m sorry,” Hamilton says as soon as Burr enters the room, “Aaron, I’m sorry, I shouldn't have pressured you, I shouldn’t have called you a coward, I wasn’t _thinking,_ you’re not some moron at the convention, you’re my _partner_ , and I should fucking listen, please, Aaron…”

Burr embraces him, whatever drops of anger that had remained dissipating at Hamilton’s broken tone.

“I’m sorry too,” he says, “I shouldn't have stormed off like that.”

“I don’t blame you. I was being a dick.”

“Agreed.”

Hamilton laughs, muffled against Burr’s chest.

“Look, Aaron, if you don’t want to do it, it’s okay. I want to do it with you, but I’m not going to force you. You should do it because you believe in it, not because I coerced you.”

“I don’t know if I believe in it,” Burr says, and Hamilton’s face falls, despite his statement, “but I believe in you, Alex. I believe in your ideas, even when they seem crazy. I’ll do it.”

“You will?” Hamilton sounds skeptical, and for just a second Burr feels angry again, that Hamilton still doubts him. It’s an ugly feeling he quashes down.

“I will,” Burr says, “because I love you, and I trust you. Don’t make a fool out of me.”

“You won’t regret it,” Hamilton says, and his smile is so stupidly bright, so overwhelming, that Burr thinks he couldn’t regret anything he promises this man, even if it all goes up in flames.

 

***

 

Burr, ever the fool, assumed that because he and Hamilton had worked closely in so many ventures that writing a few essays wouldn’t be a big deal. Hamilton, whose hands have been on every part of Burr’s body, takes similar liberties with his pen on Burr’s drafts, rendering them unrecognizable.

“You know,” Burr says, reading over Hamilton’s “corrections” (read: entire sentences inked out and rewritten by Hamilton to be much longer and more verbose), “I thought part of the reason you wanted me on this project was my brevity. Tripling my page length doesn’t really highlight that.”

“I wanted to be sure everything was explained correctly.”

“Yeah, but you want people to read these things, right? You have to give it to them in pieces. You can’t dump it all out at once. No one’s going to read a tome like this.”

“I would.”

“No one besides you.”

Hamilton takes Burr’s draft back, bites his lip as he rereads it. He looks devastatingly sexy, absorbed in the work, a smudge of ink on his cheek, hair in disarray. Burr leans across the desk and tries to wipe it off, but his dry thumb only smudges the ink more. Burr laughs, and Hamilton looks up.

“I’m making it worse,” Burr says, but wets his thumb and tries again, this time succeeding in getting some of the ink off. Now the faded blackness almost looks like a bruise. His hand moves from Hamilton’s cheek to the back of his neck, pulls him closer, meets him there for a kiss.

“You talk too much,” he says, when he withdraws, “but you are a vision when you’re working, all disheveled and absorbed. Makes a man want to do everything in his power to distract you.”

“Is that so?”

Hamilton’s not always the easiest man to distract when he’s working, but Burr notes a catch of breath, feels Hamilton lean into his touch. A welcomed distraction, then. Burr is all too glad to give it.

“Mmm,” Burr says, and he moves out of his own chair, straddles Hamilton. He kisses him again, deeper now, hands buried in his tangled hair. Hamilton moans a little as Burr tugs on the hair gently, and Burr feels him arch beneath him. Burr shifts as best he can, rolls his hips against Hamilton, cock rapidly hardening in his breeches. This position is hell on his thighs, but worth it to have Hamilton pinned beneath him like this. He maneuvers a hand down; palm grazing against Hamilton’s erection, then manages to undo the buttons, freeing Hamilton cock. Hamilton groans louder as Burr strokes his shaft lightly, still kissing him, pulling at his hair. Burr briefly tastes something acrid on his tongue, realizes it’s the ink – gone completely from Hamilton’s cheek now, at least. He moves away from Hamilton, sinks to his knees, taking him into his mouth. He wastes no time in working Hamilton, hand and mouth moving in tandem. His knees ache less than a minute in, but the absolutely exquisite noises Hamilton makes distract Burr from that mild discomfort. It doesn’t take long before Hamilton tenses beneath him, one hand on the back of Burr’s neck. Hamilton cries out, something wordless and helpless, a noise that makes Burr’s own untouched cock twitch in his breeches. Burr swallows and rises from the floor, half falling back on to Hamilton. Hamilton’s arms wrap around him, as if to steady him, though his movements are uncoordinated and endorphin-slowed. Still, Hamilton’s mouth finds his, a sweet and sloppy kiss. Burr returns the kiss, then finally disengages, pulls himself up to a standing position.

“Now,” he says, tone sweet, “maybe you’ll reconsider some of those edits on my work.”

It takes a beat for Burr’s comment to land, an expression of disbelief crossing Hamilton’s face before he bursts into laughter.

“Why Mr. Burr,” he says, “that was very underhanded.”

A pause.

“I will reconsider, though.”

 

***

 

Hamilton recruits another man to add to their series of essays. Burr knows James Madison tangentially, their paths crossing on occasion, but he has no strong feelings about the man one way or another. Madison is a good enough writer, and having someone else to focus on keeps Hamilton from breathing down Burr’s neck.

They release the essays. Just a handful, at first. _The Federalist Papers_ , they’re called, published under the pseudonym _Publius_.

(The name had been Burr’s idea, the kind of painfully clever joke an over-schooled boy might have come up with. Publius, after all, was the man who had led Rome’s people into a republic, overthrowing their king.)

They publish the essays frequently – four times a week, at the height of it – discussing the weaknesses of the Articles of Confederation and the strengths of a centralized government. Hamilton writes far too much about the executive and judicial branches, publishes them anyway. He’s published more articles than Burr and Madison combined, but Burr’s overheard the most talk about one of his own essays (a fact he doesn’t share with Hamilton – yet – but enjoys, privately). He might love Hamilton, but it doesn’t mean he’s stopped competing with him.

Regardless, the articles – sixty so far, and counting – become far more popular than Burr had ever imagined. Suddenly he sees the papers everywhere, and when you say _the federalist papers_ everyone knows what’s being referenced. It has _weight_.

The three of them get a drink to celebrate their success, minor celebrities in anonymity, and Burr sits next to Hamilton and sometimes feels Hamilton’s hand graze his thigh under the table.

“I received word from Jefferson the other day,” Madison says, wiping a drop of beer from his chin, “he’ll be returning to the states sometime next year.”

 Hamilton stiffens a little beside him, and Burr, utilizing his sixth sense of _oh shit Hamilton’s about to say something stupid_ (a sense that had blossomed when they’d first started working together, and only refined since then), pinches Hamilton’s arm. Hamilton jerks, looks at Burr.

“Are you all right?” asks Madison, concerned.

“Yes, fine. Leg cramp.”

Hamilton stays relatively quiet for the rest of the evening, leaving Madison and Burr to talk, discussing the final few essays they have planned.

 

***

 

They give Hamilton the honor of writing the final essay (he’d outpaced both of them easily, anyway, so it seemed only right). Burr had expected Hamilton to write it in no time, a few hours, at most, but days go by and there’s no word of it. At home, Burr watches as Hamilton sits at his desk, pen in hand, empty paper stretched out before him. Nothing comes. It’s an unsettling sight.

“Are you all right?” Burr asks, finally. Hamilton sighs, puts his unused pen down.

“I don’t know how to finish it,” Hamilton says, “and I’m not a fan of endings, or neat and tidy summaries. I feel like we need to explain more --”

“If we haven’t convinced people by now, I doubt an eighty-sixth essay would tip the scale. It can’t go on forever, Alex.”

“I know.”

Burr comes up behind his seated lover, wraps his arms around him, places a kiss on top of his forehead. Hamilton leans back into the affection, humming softly, the back of his head pressing solid and warm against Burr’s ribs.

“I’m glad you did this,” he says, “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“You absolutely could have,” says Burr, “they just might not have been so good.”

Hamilton laughs, and Burr holds what he can tighter. It’s a simple moment, and they’ve had a hundred similar small intimacies, but it still strikes him sometimes – how fortunate he is, to live like this. With this man. With this love.

They stay like that for seconds, or minutes, or hours, and then Hamilton leans forward, and begins to write.

_According to the formal division of the subject of these papers ---_

Burr kisses the top of his head once more, and then lets him be.

 

***

 

Hamilton comes to bed that night energized, back to his old self.

“It’s coming together,” he says, “still a few paragraphs to write, but it will be done sometime tomorrow.”

“I knew you could do it,” Burr murmurs.

“Still,” Hamilton says, “I’ve been thinking.”

“A dangerous pastime.”

“I know.”

“What about?”

“Well...” here, Hamilton kisses him, the sentence unfinished. Burr kisses him back until he’s nearly dizzy.

“You know I love your fingers inside of me…”

Burr’s grip tightens involuntarily on Hamilton’s arm at the memories, Hamilton’s tight heat, the contractions against Burr’s fingers as he came.

“Leads me to believe I’d love other things inside me as well,” Hamilton says, coy, but his hand squeezes Burr in a place that leaves no doubt as to what he has in mind, and the blood seems to leave Burr’s head at the mere thought of it - being inside Hamilton, _fucking_ him. He’s thought about it, of course, had thought about such things even back in the cave the first time Hamilton had rolled over and Burr had thrust himself between Hamilton's slick thighs, but it had never been a thing he expected to come to fruition.

He’s been silent for too long, because Hamilton draws back, looks at him with some concern.

“Aaron?”

“Yes, sorry, I--” Burr’s mind is definitely not focused on words right now, “you, uh, surprised me.”

“In a good way, I hope.”

“Very,” Burr says, then adds, “are you sure?”

“Very,” says Hamilton, pulling Burr closer, and Burr follows, half on top of Hamilton, kissing him, rutting against his thigh. Hamilton is entirely too clothed – they both are – and Burr does his best to remedy this, fumbling at their clothes, savoring the way his fingers skim over Hamilton’s bared chest and stomach. His follows his fingers’ path with his mouth, lips moving over Hamilton’s ribs, his hips, and then Burr takes him into his mouth, moving slowly, fingers grazing over Hamilton’s thighs.

He stops his ministrations only to grab the bottle of oil from its drawer, and then he returns, mouth stretching over Hamilton’s cock and one finger slipping inside him. It’s a rhythm Burr’s gotten used to, and when he adds a second finger, he feels Hamilton’s hand on his shoulder. Burr looks up.

“Everything okay?”

“Yes,” Hamilton says, and laughs a little, breathless, “but I won’t last if you keep doing that with your mouth.”

Burr settles back, obliges, focusing instead on fucking Hamilton slowly with his fingers. Even without Burr touching his cock, Hamilton squirms beneath him, eyes fluttered half-closed in pleasure. Burr withdraws to add more oil to his fingers and then slide in a third, Hamilton stretching around him. He moves more cautiously now, slower and more shallow, but Hamilton shows no such hesitancy, thrusting his hips eagerly against Burr.

“Please,” Hamilton says, “enough teasing.”

Burr scissors his fingers slightly, experimental, and a slight wince cross Hamilton’s face.

“Not yet,” Burr murmurs, and Hamilton huffs until Burr crooks his fingers inside of him, changing the nature of the noise into something far more pleasant. Hamilton stops arguing (giving up remarkably quickly, and Burr thinks it’s a shame this method of quieting Hamilton cannot be utilized in other spaces).

Finally, Burr feels he’s done what he can, and withdraws his slick fingers, briefly stroking his own hard cock.

“How do you feel?” he asks.

“Teased out of my mind,” Hamilton says, “and very ready for your cock.”

Burr’s cock twitches at that, and he pours still more oil on his hand and strokes himself. Hamilton spreads his legs further, and Burr holds on to one thigh, presses the head of his cock against Hamilton. He increases the pressure, just slightly, and slides in, breaching Hamilton, and as he moves deeper he thinks for one moment that he might come just from this, from this moment of heat and tightness and the sight of Hamilton’s half-open mouth, his wordless noise of pleasure as the head of Burr’s cock drags across his prostate. Burr sinks into him slowly, fighting the urge to move his hips faster. Hamilton’s own hips lift up, meeting Burr until he’s buried up to the hilt, actually _inside_ him, _fucking_ him, and Burr has to close his eyes because it’s too much, all of this, too much.   

He stays paused inside Hamilton, trying to calm himself down, talk himself from this ledge. Hamilton shifts beneath him, impatient, and Burr takes the hint, opens his eyes and leans back just slightly, better angling into Hamilton, and moves slowly.

“Fuck, Aaron,” says Hamilton, rocking into him, “god, you feel amazing.”

“You’re one to talk,” manages Burr, and Hamilton clenches down on him and he gasps.

He finds a rhythm, finds an angle that has Hamilton speaking in tongues, and he speeds up, Hamilton’s legs on Burr’s shoulders and one hand grabbing at Hamilton’s thigh, the other one stroking him, and it doesn’t take long before Hamilton shouts, desperate and beautiful, and comes over Burr’s hand, his own stomach, everywhere. The contractions of Hamilton’s orgasm push Burr over the edge and with a final stutter of his hips he comes, and for a moment it’s like a white light, like dying, a tunnel where it’s only this feeling, this heat, and then Burr collapses onto Hamilton’s chest, softening cock falling out of him, laughing like a man who has had a near-death experience.

“I love you,” Hamilton says, and Burr feels his lips brushing the crown of his head.

“I love you too,” Burr says.

 

***

 

The winter finally begins to recede, the ground thawing. The air holds hints of spring. Burr returns from errands one day to find Hamilton on his knees in the yard, spade in hand, dirt streaked across his arms.

“Hiding a body?” Burr asks.

“Yes, Jeffersons’,” Hamilton says. Burr laughs. Jefferson had come in, all pomp and grandeur, and had immediately found his way under Hamilton's skin. Burr doesn’t like the man overmuch either, but it doesn’t keep him up at night the way it does Hamilton.

Hamilton’s hands shape the dirt, palms forming a gentle mound.

“Thought I’d plant a few things,” Hamilton says, “I miss being in the dirt.”

For the first time in weeks, Burr thinks back to their makeshift island homestead. Hamilton had built a garden there, too, planted tropical things that had only just begun to grow when they were rescued. Back when they thought they might be there for years and had begun to turn the place into a home.

Without saying anything else, Burr sinks to his knees across from Hamilton. They find a rhythm, one digging and the other planting the seeds, covering them back up with the damp earth. Hamilton is methodical in the planting, occasionally discussing why one vegetable is planted near another, or how this flower repels certain pests. Burr listens, and asks the occasional question, but mostly just does as Hamilton instructs him. When they’re done, a patch of the yard is in neat rows, and Burr’s back aches. It takes him forever to scrub the dirt from beneath his nails.

He climbs into bed next to Hamilton, who has done his best to wash but still smells of the earth. Burr doesn't mind. He’s reminded again of their cave, when they practically slept on the dirt itself.

“I don’t even remember what you planted,” Burr says, partially to himself.

“Some beans, potatoes, tomatoes, lettuce - I told you all this, weren’t you listening?”

“No,” Burr says, “on the island.”

“Oh,” Hamilton pauses, remembering, “lots of tubers. Wild carrots. Those berries you were convinced were poisonous. Those white jasmine flowers you liked.”

“The ones at the other end of the island?”

“Yes, it was meant to be a surprise.”

Burr’s oddly touched by this. He’d remarked on the flowers when they were gathering wood, commenting on their sweet smell. Hamilton had told him the flower’s name - butterfly jasmine - and then they had moved on. Or, he supposes, he had moved on.

“It’s a good surprise,” he says, and kisses Hamilton.

“You’ll never see it.”

“I’m still surprised.”

Hamilton’s arms tighten around him, pull him in, and that night Burr dreams of flowers, and plants grown tall.

 

***

 

One weekend, Burr goes alone to the market, scans stall after stall. None of them have what he’s looking for, and he’s almost given up when he pauses in front of one of the final booths, examining the display of fruits and vegetables. And there, nestled at the corner of the table, he spots them.

The weight of the coconut in his hands shocks him; he shifts it slightly, feeling the slosh of water inside it. His thumb brushes across the coarse shell, a few fibrous strands coming loose.

“Careful,” cautions the storekeeper, “that came all the way from the Caribbean, you know.”

_Yeah_ , Burr thinks, _I know the feeling_.

“How much?” Burr asks, and the man names a price so outrageous Burr almost drops the coconut.

He buys the damn thing anyway, spends 14 shillings and 6 pence on it, like an ass, but truth is Burr would have given the man every coin in his pocket.

When Hamilton comes home there’s half a coconut at each of their places at the table, and his eyes widen in shock.

“What’s this?” Hamilton asks.

“Alex, you know what a coconut is.”

Hamilton shoots Burr a look.

“And what’s it doing on our kitchen table?”

“I thought you deserved a treat, Mr. Secretary of the Treasury.”

“Where’d you even find this?”

“Just stumbled across it. Cheers.”

Hamilton picks up his coconut half, touches it gingerly against Burrs’. Burr sips awkwardly out of the shell, but as the mildly sweet water pours over his tongue he’s transported back to the island. He glances at Hamilton, whose eyes are closed, rapturous, and smiles. The expression on Hamilton’s face alone would be worth the asinine amount of money he’d spent, but he has further plans still for the thing.

They carve out the pieces of flesh, which are as sweet as Burr remembers, and afterward Hamilton kisses him and Burr tastes the tropics on his tongue.

“ _Isla siempre_ ,” Hamilton says, and pops another piece of coconut into his mouth. Burr smiles.

“Is that the only Spanish you remember?”

“It’s all I need to remember.”

“Thank you for this, Aaron. I love you,” Hamilton smiles, and adds, “ _siempre_.”

“I love you too. _Siempre_.”

Always, always, always.

***

 

Burr waits until Hamilton retires to his office to begin stripping the fibers from the coconut shells. He’s meticulous and careful not to break any of the strands. He has one chance for this, his wallet can’t afford another. His fingers feel clumsy at first, braiding the fibers, but after a few practice attempts he finds his old rhythm, weaving the strands together. The same result every time.

He eyes the finished product critically. It’s rough, but anything created out of such material was bound to be so. He tucks it away in a corner of his dresser; hopefully well away from Hamilton’s prying eyes. He’s left with the husks of the coconut, now stripped bare. They have no use for them, but Burr’s loath to discard them, for reasons both nostalgic and monetary.

He ends up taking them outside, uses the husks to mark two corners of their new garden. They’re almost the same color as the dirt, and Burr thinks maybe he’ll paint them some bright color, really give the garden some decoration. But not today. Instead, he rises up, brushes the dirt from his hands, and walks inside, to where Hamilton is waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Currently I only have two more chapters planned for this. I have every intention of writing them...quicker than it took me to finish this chapter, but I know not to make promises. 
> 
> Notes:  
> \- Survivor Types turned 1 year old on December 12th. I'd wanted to publish this chapter then. Obviously failed.  
> \- Everything I know about the Federalist Papers I learned from reading [Non Stop's genius annotations](https://genius.com/Lin-manuel-miranda-non-stop-lyrics)  
> \- [Jasmine](http://www.flowermeaning.com/jasmine-flower-meaning/) is associated with love, and, more specifically, [butterfly jasmine](http://nationalflowers.info/2010/09/10/cuba-national-flower-butterfly-jasmine/) is associated with independence and rebellion.  
> \- [Aaron Burr and coconuts](https://whatagrump.tumblr.com/post/131134047956/llassah-the-private-journal-of-aaron-burr) are my real OTP. Also, I have waited a YEAR to write that scene. 
> 
> And let me say again I cannot express how thankful I am to the people still reading this, and not giving up on me despite my awful update schedule (or, uh, lack thereof), and who send me messages or still comment on this, you guys are the best.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first shoots of green appear in the garden as spring breaches their city, and Hamilton grows restless.  
> Occasionally, Burr has likened living with Hamilton to living with a feral tomcat, a thing that becomes uneasy if not let out to roam. However, in this case, Hamilton's unease is not due to wanderlust, but to the increasing infusion of one Thomas Jefferson into their political spectrum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a hundred years and some rough months but here we are. Second to last chapter.
> 
> I lowkey recommend rereading the final paragraph of the last chapter because that object comes back into play.

The first shoots of green appear in the garden as spring breaches their city, and Hamilton grows restless.

Occasionally, Burr has likened living with Hamilton to living with a feral tomcat, a thing that becomes uneasy if not let out to roam. However, in this case, Hamilton's unease is not due to wanderlust, but to the increasing infusion of one Thomas Jefferson into their political spectrum. His agitation had been quick to come about, Hamilton complaining ceaselessly about Jefferson’s outlandish dress, self-serving blather, and forcing his opinions onto anyone who would listen.

( _Sounds a bit like someone I know_ , Burr had said when Hamilton first went on his tirade, and the look Hamilton gave him could've turned him to ice.)

“We’re constantly at a stalemate,” Hamilton complains over dinner, “and I don’t know how to make him budge. It’s exhausting.”

Burr, having learned his lesson, says nothing.

 

***

 

“I've got a meeting with Washington today,” Hamilton says one summer morning, “he asked that you come.”

“Did he really ask,” Burr says, “or will I show up, only to be looked upon like an intruder?”

Hamilton has been known to massage the truth when it’s something he wants. Damned lawyers.

“He really asked,” Hamilton says, “promise. Said he could use an outside opinion on some things.”

Purposely vague. Burr eyes him as Hamilton continues on.

“And today’s perfect. You can support my argument.”

“Your argument on what?”

Hamilton has so many argumental irons in the fire that Burr can’t keep them all straight.

“On why we need to assume individual states’ debt.”

“I’ve heard enough of that argument to last a lifetime, thanks.”

Hamilton runs his fingers lightly over Burr’s arm. Despite himself, he gets goosebumps.

 “I want you there. So does Washington. Please?”

Burr raises an eyebrow. Washington had never wanted _him_ for much.

(Not that he’s bitter.)

“Look,” Hamilton continues, “I’m better when you’re with me. Just knowing you’re there, it grounds me. Keeps me on task, because I know I’ll catch hell from you if I go too far off.”

Burr smiles. He’d worked hard at training Hamilton out of that particular habit in the courtroom. Hamilton takes both of Burr’s hands in his.

“Just come, please? I can’t let Jefferson win this. He’s going to fuck the country up before we even get a chance to get started. I’ll beg if I have to...” Hamilton gets to his knees, and Burr’s reminded of when they’d first begun working together, how Hamilton had begged in just this way to be lead counsel on the Weeks case.

“Fine,” Burr sighs, “you know I could never resist a man on his knees.”

Grinning, Hamilton moves closer, still kneeling, places his hands on the backs of Burr’s thighs. He looks up at Burr; eyes wide in faux-innocence, as if completely oblivious to the way Burr’s breeches grow tented.

“I’m ever so grateful, Mr. Burr, _sir,_ ” he purrs, and his hands slide up higher on Burr’s thighs, cupping his ass, “whatever can I do to thank you?”

Burr leans back against the wall, one hand traveling down to lightly grasp Hamilton’s hair. He doesn't miss the momentary catch of breath as he tugs, Hamilton’s eyes fluttering for a moment as he forgets the game.

“Well, Mr. Hamilton,” Burr says, matching the faux-seriousness of Hamilton’s tone, “I’ve heard that mouth of yours is pretty popular.”

Hamilton moves said mouth closer, tracing it over the outline of Burr’s cock through his breeches. Burr can feel the heat of his breath through the fabric, and his grip tightens in Hamilton’s hair. Hamilton’s hands reach around, unfastening Burr’s breeches and letting them fall to his knees. Hamilton regards his cock for a moment, then dips his head down and flicks his tongue over Burr’s shaft.

“I am,” he says, licking again, fingernails digging lightly into Burr’s thighs, “ _very_ grateful.”

His whole mouth covers Burr then, and Burr has to lean his head back and close his eyes for a moment, the sight of Hamilton on his knees with most of Burr’s cock in his mouth too overwhelming. He feels Hamilton’s tongue tracing over the ridges of his cock head, and then swallowing deeper. His hands move to rest on Burr’s hips, and Burr opens his eyes to watch Hamilton’s beautiful head bobbing as he moves. Hamilton hums as he takes Burr in, and Burr feels the vibration through his entire body. His hips twitch slightly, hungry for more of Hamilton’s mouth, and Hamilton’s fingers tighten on his hips, pulling them towards him, encouraging. Burr moves his hips again, fucking into Hamilton’s eager mouth. He looks down, and sees Hamilton’s eyes are open, looking up at him, and the already-stretched corners of his lips quirk up, smiling with his mouth full. Encouraged, Burr fucks Hamilton’s mouth harder, hand tight in his hair, and Hamilton stays right with him, fingers digging into his hipbones, making pleased noises each time Burr thrusts into him. Hamilton’s eyes are closed, now, focused on his task, but the sight of it still drives Burr wild. The way Hamilton’s lips are stretched, the sight of his own cock thrusting into that gorgeous mouth -- it’s enough to push Burr over the edge, and he sinks one final time into Hamilton’s mouth, deep, and Hamilton’s lips close around him as he comes.

Burr slides down the length of the wall, after, weak-kneed from his orgasm. He pulls the still-kneeling Hamilton toward him, an awkward, sloppy embrace, and when Hamilton acquiesces, his weight throws Burr off balance. He ends up almost falling to the floor, still holding Hamilton, and the absurdity of it makes him laugh. Hamilton laughs too, and kisses Burr from his awkward position.

“You’re a fucking disaster,” Hamilton says, affectionate, and Burr doesn’t argue, just kisses him again and again.

 

***

 

They clean up before leaving the house, though Burr’s mind is still full of the sight of Hamilton on his knees. They head to the cabinet meeting, Burr staying half a step behind Hamilton, unsure of the direction.

Jefferson is already there when they arrive, makes a show of rising from his chair and coming to greet them. He shakes Hamilton’s hand first, the other hand going to his shoulder, and Burr notes the pressure of Jefferson’s fingertips, as if examining the quality of fabric in Hamilton’s coat.

“I didn’t know we were bringing dates to this meeting,” says Jefferson. He doesn’t offer to shake Burr’s hand. Burr forces himself not to look away.

Hamilton opens his mouth to reply, but Washington’s arrival saves them. He clasps a hand on Burr’s shoulder.

“Glad to have you here, Aaron,” he says, and smiles, though Burr notices it doesn’t quite meet his eyes. Still, he smiles back, and shakes the president’s hand. He breathes a quiet sigh of relief that Washington had, apparently, invited Burr, whatever the reason.

Hamilton takes Washington aside, and Burr busies himself talking to Madison – a familiar face, at least – while others trickle in. Some of the staff cast odd looks at Burr, and being noticed in this way – _outsider, outsider_ – makes him itch, but he ignores it.

He’s grateful when Washington calls the meeting to order and he no longer has to attempt small talk.

“I called this meeting,” Washington begins, “for us to discuss Secretary Hamilton’s plan to assume state debt and establish a national bank. Secretary Jefferson, you have to floor.”

Jefferson rises – entirely unnecessary, but a good way of drawing the eye – and begins his pitch.

It’s a glory to watch, really, the verbal sparring between the two men. Burr, of course, finds Hamilton’s position the most convincing as he lays out his argument for assuming state debt.

Funny, Burr thinks, that the seeds of Hamilton’s plan were first spoken over a fire on the island. Burr remembers it, how Hamilton’s eyes had shone in the firelight, saying _my first idea is how we’re going to structure the nation’s debt_ …

And what had Burr said, back then? _Your ideas are good. I can’t wait to see them play out._

Years later and here he is, witnessing those same ideas. The fruition.  

 

***

 

To no one’s surprise, the two men escalate their argument until it’s practically shouting, and the threat of violence – _I’ll show you where my shoe fits_ – is the final straw. Washington slams his hands on the table hard enough to make Burr jump in his seat.

“You’re all excused,” he says, “we’ll reconvene after a brief recess when we can speak like civilized human beings.”

Hamilton rises, and Washington looks at him.

“A word, Alex.”

Burr casts an encouraging look to Hamilton before slipping out with the rest of the group. He closes the door behind him, but already he can hear their voices – Hamilton not arguing the way he had with Jefferson, but still with _insistence_ – muffled through the wood.

Hamilton emerges a few minutes later, jaw clenched. Washington looks at Burr.

“Mr. Burr, may I speak with you for a moment?”

Burr feels a knot of dread at those words. He can count on one hand the number of times he’s been alone with Washington. But he obliges, walks into the room. Washington gestures for Burr to take a seat, but doesn’t sit himself, so Burr, too, remains standing. Washington notices this, a small smile crossing his face.

“How is Hamilton doing?” Washington says, as if he hadn’t just been in the room with him.

“He's fine,” Burr replies, “but all due respect, Mr. President, if you've only called me in here to speak about Hamilton’s well-being--”

“No, no,” Washington says, “the reason I've called you and here is because Mr. Henry Knox has had some health issues recently, and is no longer fit for duty.”

Henry Knox, Washington’s Secretary of War. No longer fit for duty. Which means – well, it means a replacement is needed. Burr’s heart speeds up. His hopes are up too, gods damn them, but he tries to keep his expression placid. Unflappable.

“There's been talk of you for the position,” Washington continues, “lord knows you have the war experience for it, and you’ve shown yourself to be quite the clever mind.”

_No thanks to you_ , Burr thinks, still bitter from a flippant dismissal in a tent a lifetime ago. What he says instead is, “I've always been more than willing to serve my country.”

“Yes, indeed, and I know I haven't always been the most acknowledging of your accomplishments, but rest assured that they have not escaped my notice.”

“Glad to hear it.”

“In truth, you’re said to be a brilliant man, Mr. Burr. Alexander certainly seems to think so.”

A sinking feeling in his gut.

“Sir, did Alexander recommend me for Mr. Knox’s position?”

“No, it’s a decision I came to on my own, though whenever your name is mentioned around Alex, he’s always quite eager to wax poetic on your multitude of talents,” Washington pauses for a moment, considering, then continues, “and in all honesty, it would be a great boon to me if you were here alongside him. You two complement each other.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your law practice. The Federalist papers. Hell, just surviving the way you two did. Whenever you men together, it seems…” Washington trails off, something unfinished hanging in the air. Burr can’t quite tell if Washington’s insinuating that he knows more, or if it’s his own paranoia manifesting.

“There’s a balance,” Washington continues, “with you and him. He’s a better man with you behind him. And while I don’t know you as well as I do Hamilton, I think the same can be said for you.”

Burr has to bite his lip to resist saying _you have no idea_.

“So, Mr. Burr, do you accept?”

Burr hesitates. He’s dreamed of such a moment, such a position being offered to him – indeed, hadn’t the idea of such a powerful role been one of the incentives for agreeing to his overseas voyage years ago? But now, with the offer on the table, with Washington’s expectant eyes on him, Burr feels a wild urge to back out, to return to the life where he’s comfortable, where he knows what will come from one day to the next.

But no. He’s done playing it safe.

He _takes_.

“I accept,” Burr says.

“Excellent.”

They shake hands.

 

***

 

The way Hamilton looks at him as Burr exits the room leaves Burr suspecting that he had an idea of what Washington had intended to ask him, despite whatever Washington may have said to the contrary.

“What did he want?” asks Hamilton.

Burr only looks at him.

“I feel like you know,” Burr says.

“I may have an idea. Tell me anyway.”

“He offered me Knox’s position.”

“Holy shit, really?!”

Hamilton’s face is nothing but open surprise, and Burr realizes maybe Hamilton hadn’t known, after all. Burr feels himself break into a grin.

“Yes, really.”

“That's amazing, Aaron - he’d mentioned offering some position, but he didn't specify which one, I was _hoping_ , but you never know with him...”

“Nope. Full on motherfucking secretary of war.”

“And you accepted, right?” Hamilton’s tone is light, joking - but there’s the faintest vein of seriousness. As if he knew all about Burr’s momentary hesitation, his desire to flee.

“I absolutely did.”

Hamilton’s grin dissolves into laughter and he puts a hand on Burr’s shoulder.

“God, Jefferson’s going to be so fucking _pissed_.”

 

***

 

Things speed up, after that.

Their law practice still exists, but in a much smaller capacity, serving only a few select clients. Mostly, their days are taken up with meetings and all the strangeness that comes with politics - schmoozing and hand-holding and strategy, and while Burr doesn’t mind these things (and quite excels at them, if he does say so himself), he comes home most nights exhausted.

But they make progress. They change things. The nation takes shape, like clay formed into a vessel, and Burr thrills that his hands are a part of its creation.

Things are different now. When Burr walks into the room, he _belongs_.

He doesn’t see Hamilton much during the day, even when they’re in the same meetings they’re in different orbits, so most nights they stay up late, discussing strategy and offering one another advice.

Washington was right, Burr admits. They complement each other. His ideas are better with Hamilton’s input, and vice versa.

“I need to make a plan,” Hamilton says one night.

“What’s your plan?” Burr asks.

“There’s been some...disagreements lately over where to put the US Capitol,” Hamilton says, in the understatement of the century.

“I’m aware,” Burr says dryly. The last few cabinet meeting had consisted largely of non-stop arguments between Hamilton and Jefferson, leaving little room for any of the other cabinet members to get a word in edgewise.

“I have to figure out how to beat Jefferson.”

“What else is new?”

“He wants it out in bumfuck, Virginia, even though everything important is happening here…”

“And why does he want it out there?”

“Fuck if I know. Bragging rights. Closer to his home.”

“Worst that’ll happen, if it’s in Virginia?”

Hamilton pauses, considers.

“More traveling. It’s stupid.”

“So worst case scenario, it’s stupid.”

Hamilton’s lips purse and he doesn’t answer, which means Burr’s right. He continues.

“And he wants this, right? Pretty badly. So what do you think he’d give up, in exchange?”

Hamilton’s silence remains, but the quality of it changes, from sulking to pondering. Burr resists a smile.

“I know compromise isn’t your favorite, but quid pro quo. What do you want, Alex?”

Hamilton’s eyes brighten.

“You brilliant fucking bastard.”

“I believe you’re the bastard, here-”

Hamilton cuts him off with a kiss, and when he pulls back, he’s already talking.

“That’s it; I’ll go to them, crawling on my belly, offering up the capitol on a silver platter...in exchange for my banks.”

Burr smiles.

“A system you can shape however you want.”

“God, I love you.”

“I love you too.”

“Let’s make it happen.”

 

***

 

Once the idea was planted in his mind, Hamilton took off with it, as Burr had suspected. The man was so damn focused on _winning_ he couldn’t always see the more insidious path to victory - which sometimes, was all Burr could see.

_Complementary_. The word keeps running through his head.

“We’re having dinner, this Saturday,” Hamilton says.

“We have dinner most days.”

Burr can’t help the joke. He ignores Hamilton’s look.

“With Jefferson and Madison. We’re going to discuss my compromise.”

Oh, so suddenly it’s _his_ compromise. Burr resists the urge to roll his eyes.

“I need you there.”

That catches his attention.

“Why?”

“It was your idea, so you should be in room. You’re fucking brilliant. You’re a calming presence. It keeps me from being the odd man out there. I’d like something nice to look at so I don’t punch Jefferson in the face. You’re the secretary of war…”

“You expecting war to break out?”

“Be serious, Aaron. I don’t know if this can happen without you.”

Burr feels abashed, and he takes Hamilton’s hand, kisses each knuckle.

“Of course I’ll be there.”

Hamilton smiles.

“Good. Now, let’s practice. We’ve only got a few days. You be Jefferson.”

 

***

 

In the interim, Burr writes. He and Higgins have kept up a lively enough correspondence. He misses the pirate, whom he feels even closer to as they share stories in their letters, even as their paths diverge further and further.

> _Dear John,_
> 
> _I hope you are doing well. I am writing to you, of all things, from my new desk, in my new position as Secretary of War. Can you believe it? I was dumbstruck, though Alex says such a position was long overdue, I had assumed Washington disliked me enough to withhold such things from me indefinitely..._

He writes on, updating Higgins on his life, asks after the admiral and his captain. He finishes:

> _Finally, my friend, I have a great favor to ask you, one that would require you to return to our docks…_

He makes his request, feels oddly nervous as he seals the envelope, as if Hamilton would suddenly appear, peering over his shoulder to see what Burr had written. No such thing happens, of course, and the letter is sent off without fanfare, though once it leaves Burr’s hands he wants to grab for it, take it all back, erase his foolhardy request.

When he gets home, he opens his dresser drawer and reaches for the box with its coconut-fiber creation. The box is small, one of the few items Burr has from his mother, and sits comfortably in the palm of his hand. He moves the box into his bedside table, sliding it into the back of the drawer before shutting it. There’s a sound, and he whirls, sure Hamilton will be in the doorway, curious - but it was nothing. A door slamming somewhere. Burr’s just jumpy, is all.

 

***

 

Burr wakes up strangely nervous on the day they’re set to meet with Jefferson and Madison to lay out their argument. Hamilton, in contrast, is almost eerily calm, and it reminds Burr of the strange stillness in the sky before hurricanes.

There is quiet.

But he’s on the right side of the hurricane, he suppose - he hopes - so he leaves Hamilton alone, busies himself with cleaning. Even though Hamilton appears calm, there’s something in the air, an electricity, and Burr is glad when it comes time to leave.

They arrive at the venue, a rather isolated house. It was owned, Hamilton had said, by a man with more property than he knew what to do with, so he leased the place out as needed.

“Why didn't we just have this meeting at the office?” Burr asks on the way to the door, “or hell, even at our house. Why this place? Why here?”

“Neutral ground,” Hamilton says, “just like in war. So no one can be assumed to have an advantage.”

There's a smile on his face, soft and secret, and Burr has the sense that Hamilton isn't quite telling the whole truth, that there’s some other meaning to the meeting’s location, but he’s still too jumpy to prod further.

Madison is already at the house when they arrive, welcoming them like old friends. Burr supposes that they are, in some fashion, though Madison had not felt like a friend in a long while, not since Jefferson had returned and whisked Madison to his side.

“Welcome to the manor,” Madison says, gesturing them in.

The house is exquisite, probably twice the size of Burr’s own, and he can't help but gape at the ceiling, towering above them, host to a chandelier that probably cost a year’s salary.

He’d expected Jefferson to arrive early - all the more time to fight with Hamilton. But instead he strolls in in the nick of time - almost late, really - forcing all of them to wait on him. In hindsight, Burr supposes that this is a rather savvy move, and wonders if he and Hamilton should have taken a similar tactic. Ah well. Too late now. Things have already been set in motion.

Dinner is served not long after Jefferson’s arrival, and Madison herds them into the dining room. The room itself is rather grand, bedecked in artwork and velvet hangings, but the table where they’re to eat is small, almost cozy. It’s set with four places, even including name cards written in Madison’s finely scripted hand. The table’s draped in a fine red tablecloth trimmed with gold, ornate enough that it reminds Burr of Jefferson’s jacket. Burr sits at his place, across from Hamilton, and Jefferson sits across from Madison. Burr looks around and has to bite his lip to keep from laughing - the whole thing feels so _strange_ , so surreal, as if they’re in some insane alternate universe, attending a quaint couple’s dinner. But no - instead it’s just terrible political foreplay, and by the end of the casual-but-obviously-not chatter (the weather, the coach routes, the food being served) Burr feels strung wire-tight. Finally, their plates are cleared, the table in front of them empty, save for their half-full wine glasses and a few candles that cast odd, flickering shadows across his dinner companions’ faces.

“Well,” Jefferson says, tipping his chair back as he leans away from the table, finding an angle so precarious that Burr is sure he’ll topple completely over (and maybe sends up a prayer or two for that very thing to happen), “enough small talk. I believe Mr. Hamilton has a proposal for us.”

“I thought you’d never ask,” Hamilton says, a coy smile on his face. His tone, coupled with that smile, is almost flirtatious, and Burr has to fight a ludicrous wave of jealousy. It’s all part of the plan - their plan - and hell, Burr had been the one to suggest that Hamilton be nice, in the first place.

You catch more flies with honey, and all that.

“We’d be willing to concede,” Hamilton begins, and only Burr notices the brief tightening of his jaw as he says the word - _concede_ \- “as long as you’re willing to offer us something in return…”

 

***

 

In the end, it’s easier than Burr thought.

They had offered up the capital on a silver platter, all sweetness and smiles, and when Hamilton mentioned his tradeoff - that the bank system stay in New York - Jefferson and Madison had agreed with almost no hesitation.

Hook, line, and sinker.

When the last wine is drunk, both parties rise from the table. They all smile and shake hands, everyone so sure that they’d won.

They all head to the door, but when Burr reaches for his coat, Hamilton puts a hand on his arm.

“Mr. Burr,” Hamilton says, “a word, if you would.”

They wave goodbye to Jefferson and Madison, and then Burr turns to look at Hamilton, curiosity piqued.

“Aren’t you ready to go?” Burr asks. He’s dying to get home, ready to celebrate with Hamilton, put his nervous energy to good use.

“Not quite yet,” Hamilton says, that coy smile back on his face, wider now, and reaching his eyes. He moves, walking back into the room where it had all happened, grabbing their empty wine classes and setting them on a nearby shelf. The candles have been moved too, Burr notices.

“They’re so gullible,” Hamilton says, half to himself, laughing, “never even thought to question it.”

Burr grins, too. He wonders when it will dawn on them, the particular epiphany of what, exactly, they had given up. Hamilton turns to him, catches his gaze.

“This is all thanks to you, you know,” he says, reaching out, taking Burr’s hands. Without thinking, Burr winds his fingers through Hamilton’s. Fitting together in all things. _Complementary_.

“You’re the one who saw it through,” he replies, “and let me say, Mr. Hamilton, you were a pleasure to watch. As always.”

Hamilton preens at the praise, fingers stroking over Burr’s knuckles. Burr is suddenly aware of how quiet the house is, no noise of servants moving around. He wonders if they’ve all gone home. As if reading his mind, Hamilton speaks.

“You know,” he says, “I’m friends with the owner of the house. Handled one of his cases a while back. He said I could use this place any time. Madison didn’t realize it, when I mentioned it. Nor did he thank me when he booked it. Guess he wanted to pretend he’d found the place all on his own…”

Another piece falls into place. Hamilton had played them in even the smallest of ways, all while making them think it was their idea. That they were winning, all while in a room he’d placed them in.

Not such neutral ground, after all.

“You’re the brilliant one, you know,” Hamilton’s still talking, still rubbing his fingertips over Burr’s hand, “not enough people know that. But I do, and I am in awe.”

Now it’s Burr’s turn to blush, unsure what to do with himself in the wake of Hamilton’s praise. Hamilton decides for him, leaning forward and pressing his lips against Burr. He kisses back, automatic, and as his arm wraps around Hamilton’s waist he suddenly remembers he’s in a stranger’s home, that there are other people around. He pulls back. Hamilton pulls him forward, chest pressing against him.

“I sent them home,” he says, “it’s just you and me.”

His lips are close to Burr’s again, but he doesn’t kiss him.

“We won,” he says, and Burr feels each word as an exhalation of warm breath across his face, “we won.”

Burr kisses him, this time, pressing into him harder, more urgently. It’s rash, doing this, in some stranger’s place, and even as a part of his brain clamors for him to pull back, another part guides Hamilton forward, pressing him back against the same table they’d negotiated across. Hamilton shifts when his legs hit the table, and without thinking Burr wraps his hands around the back of Hamilton’s thighs and lifts him onto it, still kissing him. Hamilton laughs a little, surprised, then wraps his legs around Burr, pulls him closer. Burr grinds against him, all rational thought gone, demolished by the excitement from their victory and the novelty of the new place; the deliciously wicked taboo of having Hamilton here on the same table where Jefferson had leaned forward, chin resting on his hands, his grin so fucking _self-satisfied -_

“I want you,” Burr breathes. As if it wasn’t obvious.

Hamilton’s legs tighten on him. He can feel Hamilton’s erection under his breeches.

“Then take me,” Hamilton says, though he shifts, reaching into his coat pocket. He pulls out a small bottle of oil and Burr gapes at it for a moment.

“You anticipated this,” he says. Hamilton smiles.

“I anticipated victory,” he says, “and celebration.”

Burr removes Hamilton’s boots and breeches, crouching down to tug the breeches off. He takes advantage of this position by licking a stripe down Hamilton thigh, taking his cock into his mouth. Hamilton moans at the sudden contact, and Burr tastes precum on his tongue, swallows. He lingers there a bit longer, tongue tracing over Hamilton, before he straightens up to remove his own breeches.

He takes the oil, works his fingers into Hamilton. He’s practiced at this now, learned better angles. Hamilton presses eagerly into him, ankles hooked around Burr’s lower back, rocking into his hand, already wanting more. Burr crooks his two fingers, works him a moment longer, slowly stroking the pads of his fingers against one particular spot inside him. Hamilton had lain back onto the table when Burr’s fingers first entered him, and when Burr slows, he sits up, wraps a hand around the back of Burr’s neck.

“Fuck me,” he says, “ _please_.”

Burr is all too willing to oblige, he straightens and strokes oil over his own hard cock. He positions himself, pressing lightly at Hamilton’s entrance, then sliding in, breaching him, an exquisite welcome of heat and tightness. He moves slow - he has to, lest he come immediately - and tries to adjust to the feeling. No matter how many times this happens, there’s always a moment at first, where Burr is left overwhelmed and dumbstruck, every sensation narrowed down to the feeling of being inside Hamilton.

Hamilton croons something wordless and sweet, a hand stroking Burr’s still-clothed back. Burr begins to move, rocking his hips in the way he knows Hamilton likes. Hamilton’s hips stutter and he cants them toward Burr, desperate, and Burr rocks into him harder, knowing he won’t last, not like this, so he puts a hand on Hamilton’s cock and strokes it once, twice, and then Hamilton’s crying out, gripping onto him, and Burr fucks the last few bursts of spend from Hamilton, and then he’s gone himself, crying out Hamilton’s name and spilling into him, clinging on to him like a drowning man as his knees go weak.

They stay that way a moment, arms wrapped around one another, Hamilton’s forehead buried in Burr’s shoulder, and then he slowly straightens, slides out from Hamilton. He kisses him again, soft, not letting go, not yet, not entirely sure he could stand on his own. He finally starts to move away, to go fetch their clothing and maybe find some kind of rag (they owe Hamilton’s friend a new table, Burr thinks, and reminds himself to tell Hamilton); but Hamilton pulls him back in.

“We won, Aaron,” Hamilton says, laughing, his face alight, “we won.”

 

***

 

“Did you ever think,” Hamilton says as they climb into bed that evening, both still charged from the evening’s escapades, “that we’d accomplish this?”

“I always knew you would do something great,” Burr replies, “and I had visions for myself, of course. But together? Not in my wildest dreams.”

“Tell you what,” Hamilton says, laughing, “I think fucking Jefferson on a deal then getting fucked myself by an astonishingly handsome man is up there as one of my wildest dreams.”

Burr feels a momentary flare of heat at the memory of what had transpired hours earlier. He leans over, kisses Hamilton, who kisses him back.

“This is our legacy, Aaron,” he says, “the beginning of it.”

Legacy. The word sends shivers down Burr’s spine. He had always wanted to do great things, formative things, but hadn’t some secret, doubting part of him always insisted he’d amount to nothing? That voice, that doubting voice, is quiet now, made mute in the face of the things they’ve begun to accomplish. Their _legacy_.

 

***

 

Burr wakes to the sound of a storm, rain pounding on the roof overhead. There’s light shining through the window, but not much, some unknowable hour. Burr opens his eyes and for a moment he imagines he’s back in their cave, recalls that storm that had confined them, Hamilton pressed wet against him. Burr had been so afraid, then, to touch him. To take any comfort in his warmth.

He has no such limitations now, is about to curl into Hamilton - warm, dry - when he recalls more fully yesterday’s events. Securing the banks, playing Jefferson and Madison for fools; celebrating, after. The start of their legacy. Burr leans over, away from Hamilton, quietly slides open the drawer to his nightstand. The box is still there, and he brings it closer, so that it is within arm’s reach.

It’s then that he turns to Hamilton, wraps an arm around him, chest pressing against his back, knees sliding into his. He reaches, finds Hamilton’s hand, curls his fingers into his.

Bound together, like knots.

He lays soft kisses on Hamilton’s neck, continues until he stirs, head twisting to peer back at him. Hamilton smiles, sleepy. Outside, there is a rumble of thunder, but it sounds far away.

“G’morning,” Hamilton mumbles, and he turns onto his back. Burr disengages his hand to better allow him to move.

“Morning,” Burr says, kissing him, then pulling back to peer at him. He feels a helpless smile tugging at the corners of his lips, even as his heart thuds in his chest.

“Question or command?” he asks.

“What?”

“Question or command?”

Hamilton shifts to better look at Burr. He reaches a hand up, strokes a finger down his cheek.

“Question,” he says. Hamilton always picks question first.

Burr takes the ring out of the box. The coconut fibers scratch lightly against his palm. The ring itself has almost no weight, but to Burr, it holds everything. He holds the ring up, and Hamilton’s eyes flick to it, the roughly woven circle of coconut husks, Burr’s laborious creation.

“Will you marry me?” he asks, and oh, now his heart is beating so quick it might burst from his chest and take off running, and that doubting voice is back, saying Hamilton will laugh, will find the whole idea preposterous.

But Hamilton does none of this; he looks at the ring with delight, looks back to Burr, holds out his hand toward him. Burr slips the ring on - it catches on Hamilton’s knuckle for a moment and Burr’s terrified it won’t fit - but then he wiggles it and it slides down, resting on Hamilton’s finger. Hamilton looks at it, moving his fingers slowly, staring with an awestruck expression. He looks back to Burr, then pulls him forward, kissing him.

“Yes,” he says, laughing, delighted, “yes, of course, of course, I love you, I love you, I love -”

Burr cuts the words off with another kiss, hand weaving back into Hamilton’s, this time feeling the additional texture of the ring. Outside, more thunder rumbles, but neither of them hear it.

 

***

 

They spend the morning in a sort of giddy bliss, and Burr notices Hamilton’s hand going to the ring, over and over, touching it, twirling it around his finger. Burr, too, finds excuses to touch it, to take Hamilton’s hand, to assure himself that this is real, that Hamilton is indeed wearing it upon his finger.

“I’ll find you something nicer, eventually,” Burr says, not wanting Hamilton to think he’s cheap (not that the damn coconut had been _cheap_ ), but Hamilton hushes him.

“This is perfect, Aaron. Everything I’ve ever wanted.”

“Good,” Burr replies, “me too.”

When it comes time for work, Hamilton slides the ring off with some reluctance. Burr feels a pang as he watches. Hamilton transfers the ring to a chain, slides it over his neck.

“Next best thing,” he says, and Burr places a hand flat on Hamilton's chest, feeling the texture of the chain, the soft beating of his heart.

“Perfect,” Burr says. He kisses him.

Perfect.

 

***

 

In the end, he does make him a better ring. More solid. Burr carves it out of the coconut shell, polishes the wood of it til it nearly shines. Now, when he presses his hand to Hamilton's chest, he can feel it. Though Burr insists Hamilton can discard the woven one, Hamilton keeps both rings.

Still perfect.

 

***

 

It’s not exactly news they can share, though Burr moves through his days grinning like a fool. It’s all symbolic, he knows. Truth be told, the very existence of their relationship is a crime, and marriage unimaginable in most people’s eyes.

Most, but not all.

He and Hamilton visit Theodosia and Isaac, and when the news is shared Theodosia manages to grab them both in a wild hug, laughing and joyous. Isaac, too, shakes their hands and smiles, congratulating them. It’s only later, when Burr and Theodosia are alone, that she asks.

“I’m thrilled for you, Aaron, but...what’s your plan?”

Her tone is neutral, calm, but Burr senses the sympathy in it.

“Well…” Burr begins, and lowers his voice, telling her. She laughs, again, head thrown back.

“You romantic bastard,” she says, still laughing, shaking her head, “you crazy, romantic bastard.”

She smiles, and glances back to the living room, where Mary Louisa’s dressed in one of Isaac’s army jackets, performing something extravagant for Isaac and Hamilton as Theo wanders in front of her, unsure of the action but sure that she wants to be part of it. Burr smiles too, watching her watching them, realizes they’ve become family, in their own strange way.

“When?” she asks.

“Well,” he says, “I’m still waiting on that part.”

“Let me know. We’ll be sure to celebrate beforehand.”

They return to the living room, join the theatrics, Burr sitting beside Hamilton on the couch, hand in his. It feels like home, and when he and Hamilton return back and climb into bed together, well, that’s home, too.

 

***

 

Higgins’s letter is full of stories, detailing his adventures. The last paragraph, though, is the one Burr’s most excited to read.

> _And as to your request, dear Aaron, how could I say no? Sebastian and I feel partially responsible for this, after all, and it would be a pleasure and an honor to see it through._
> 
> _See you soon._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is definitively only one more chapter to this. I know how it ends, I just have to write it. I have some side scenes I may add in, at some point, but this story is almost told. Almost.
> 
> We've long since gone from 'plausible US history' into 'alternate history wish fulfillment' BUT here's two notes:  
> \- In addition to wanting to hire Hamilton way back, [Henry Knox](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Henry_Knox) was another of Washington's secretaries, but tell me Burr wasn't hella qualified for that position.  
> \- nothing about [The Dinner Table Bargain](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Compromise_of_1790) in this fic is real but I've been dying to give Burr this particular redemption arc for almost two years.
> 
> A huge, sincere thank you to any and everyone still reading this.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading. I sincerely cherish all comments <3
> 
> Fic art can be viewed [here](http://misterfatcakes-art.tumblr.com/post/156515348881/i-made-this-commission-for-thinksideways-as-part), [here](http://misterfatcakes-art.tumblr.com/post/156515433021/some-doodles-related-to-that-thing-for) and [here](https://68.media.tumblr.com/90829730d268a9a781890d2c4b1b4129/tumblr_okvm62pf271ve9wayo1_540.jpg), completed as part of the Fandom Trumps Hate auction!
> 
> you can hit me up on tumblr [@thinksideways](http://thinksideways.tumblr.com/) if you want


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